


In Deepest Consequence

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Alternate Universes, Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 72,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An investigation of a serial killer strikes too close to home for Jim and Blair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Deepest Consequence

## In Deepest Consequence

#### by PJ

  
The Sentinel legally belongs to Pet Fly Productions, Paramount and The Sci Fi Channel. No money exchanged hands for this story.  
I would like to thank Anna for her excellent beta work. As usual, if there are any mistakes, they are mine as I tend to be stubborn. This story first appeared in the zine "Other Lives #2--it has been cleaned up and re-written in parts for posting here.  
To avoid any further misunderstandings, I have placed a disclaimer at the end of the story for those who feel more comfortable with one.  


* * *

**IN DEEPEST CONSEQUENCE**

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,  
The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence. 

William Shakespeare  
Macbeth, Act I Scene III 

Closing the loft door behind him with a kick, Blair Sandburg squelched into the kitchen and hastily plopped the parcels oozing from overloaded arms onto the cooking island. A sigh of relief escaping him, he quickly divested himself of his jacket, hanging the dripping garment on one of the hooks beside the front door. *This is Cascade, of course it's going to rain even though it wasn't in the forecast,* he fumed silently as he slipped out of sopping Nikes. He continued grousing as he grabbed a towel from the kitchen and wiped the wet footprints off the hardwood floor. *Naturally, the rain would hold off until I was out of the car and my arms so full I couldn't get the downstairs door open in a hurry.* 

Finishing that task, he hung the towel up to dry and proceeded to pull a thick stack of envelopes from a paper sack. Laying it aside, he unloaded the other contents from the sacks into their proper places in the refrigerator and cupboards. Several minutes later, the bundle of mail in one hand and a large mug of hot tea in the other, Blair headed for the sofa. Grimacing when a drop of cold rain from his still-wet hair slipped onto the envelope sitting atop the pile, he bounced back to his feet. Taking the stairs to the loft bedroom two at a time, he reappeared in moments carrying dry clothes and vanished into the bathroom. When he emerged ten minutes later, he was dressed in a comfortable pair of sweat pants and a baggy tee-shirt. 

Once more seated on the couch, the grad student took a sip of tea, savoring the flavorful blending of orange, cloves and nutmeg as he idly sorted through the mail. "Electric bill, cable bill, water bill," he chanted aloud, placing those items in a pile. "Car insurance...huh, Jim can open that one when he gets back; I'm too young to have a heart attack...letter from Mom, postcard from Brown--seems he's in St. Louis, my credit card bill..." Wincing as he slit open the envelope, Sandburg made a pained face at the amount-owed figure. "Ouch." 

His sorrowful financial musings were interrupted by a piercing ring. 

"Right on time, man," he snorted, reaching for the portable phone. Snagging it, he chirped, "Sandburg's House of Plumbing-we snake your pipes for you!" 

Several seconds of dead silence greeted this inanity; it was followed by an exasperated sigh. "Did you ever stop to consider, Sandburg, that it might not be me on the other end of the line?" 

Grinning widely at the long-suffering tone, Blair cheerily replied, "Nah, never happen, Jim. You said you'd call at seven; the phone rang precisely at seven. Who else would it be?" 

Obviously deciding he wasn't going to win, Jim Ellison switched topics. "Did you get your paper presented at the seminar, Chief?" 

"Yeah." Blair slouched back against the sofa. Stretching both legs across the coffee table, he took a drink of tea before saying, "Paper read, any and all accolades graciously and modestly accepted. Get this, Jim! Dr. Hennessey from Berkeley-- _the_ authority on the Ibutu--actually came up and shook my hand! He told me I had really captured the soul of the tribe. Even Chancellor Edwards unbent enough to admit to Dr. Buckner that I was a credit to Rainier." 

"That's just great, Chief!" praised Jim. "I know you worked your butt off on that paper. I hope, though, that you got Edward's remark in writing. Get your feet off the furniture," he added abruptly. 

Scowling, Sandburg surprised himself and obeyed the curt order. "Nag, nag, nag," he grumbled, sipping on his tea. "Pretty bad when a guy can't get comfortable in his own home." 

"You can get comfortable, Chief. Just keep your feet off the furniture." 

Making a disgruntled noise, Blair went on, "So how's your seminar going? You all right? You sound tired." 

"This thing is just another seminar...same old, same old. I'm fine, just couldn't sleep all that well last night. The panels are so boring I could probably do some catching up during the day, but I'm afraid I'll start snoring." 

"Didn't you use your sleep mask and white noise ear plugs?" demanded Sandburg. "You're not having a reaction to the hotel linens, are you?" 

"Ease up on the worry button, mother hen," Jim retorted lightly. "No, I'm not having a reaction to the hotel linens. Yes, I used the sleep mask and ear plugs, but that doesn't help with the odors. Housekeeping uses some sort of apple-scented room deodorant and it clashes like hell with Mr. GQ's cologne. When I'm up here, I've got smell permanently dialed down." 

"So where's Rafe?" Blair inquired, catching the reference to Ellison's temporary roommate for the three-day police seminar. "I'm guessing he's not around or we wouldn't be discussing sensory problems." 

"He's still downstairs. One of the lady cops from here in Denver waylaid him as we were getting on the elevator." Ellison chuckled. "She's got it bad, Chief. Every time the poor guy turns around, she's right behind him." 

His lover's voice warming him more than any hot tea ever could, Sandburg gave a snicker of his own. "Poor Rafe--the trials and tribulations of being a sex object!" 

There was a minute or two of companionable silence, then a deep sigh drifted along the phone line. "God, Chief; I wish you were here." 

"I know, Jim. I wish I could be there, too," Blair said softly, acknowledging all the emotions behind that wistful statement. "But you know I couldn't have missed the seminar; particularly since it was held here in Cascade. Chancellor Edwards wouldn't have had to kill me--Hal Buckner would've gotten there first. It's only another two days; you'll be back Saturday afternoon." 

"Not another two days," refuted Ellison. "It's one more day." He ran right over Sandburg's incipient interruption. "This damn thing ends at three, Friday afternoon and my flight leaves ninety minutes later. I should be back in Cascade by seven, even allowing for flight delays." 

"Tomorrow?" Sandburg didn't even try to hide his delighted surprise. "I thought the plane tickets were for Saturday afternoon?" 

"I called the airline yesterday, told them it was a police emergency." 

Sandburg burst into laughter. 

"It's not funny, Chief!" But Ellison's vehement protest held a distinct undertone of amusement. "If I have to spend too many more days here, the local boys and girls are going to have to deal with a homicide. I can probably handle the seminar, but Rafe. The guy takes an hour to get dressed in the morning after his shower. He fusses about with his underwear, changes his suit, switches his shirt and tie half a dozen times; I swear, even _Carolyn_ didn't take that long to get ready! At night, when he goes to bed, there can't be so much as one wrinkle in either his pj's or his bed sheets. If there is, the guy goes nutso. The man may be a great cop, but I sure as hell wouldn't want to live with him." 

"Ow, ow, ow," whimpered Blair, one hand curling around his aching ribs. Trying to control his unruly diaphragm, he scolded, "That's so cold, Jim!" A small giggle ruined the stern rebuke. 

"The truth hurts, Chief." 

Blair could almost see the smirk on the cop's face. Wiping laughter tears from his face, he gave a sigh of his own. "I wish it was tomorrow evening, Jim." 

"Me, too, babe. But when I get back." The smooth voice went very soft. "Just imagine, three whole days to ourselves. I'm not due back at the PD until Tuesday morning." A short, abrupt pause, then, "I'd better not find the loft trashed when I get back, Sandburg." The warm, teasing affection had vanished, leaving Ellison's usual brisk tones in its place. 

"Huh?" Sandburg stared at the phone, bewildered by the sudden change in topic and mood. Then his brain tardily kicked in. "Oh, I take it Rafe just came in?" 

"You got it." 

At Blair's insistence, they were not `out' at the Cascade PD. Too many horror stories were entrenched in the young anthropologist's mind of what could happen to gay cops. For his part, Ellison didn't care one way or the other. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion their secret wasn't nearly as secret as Blair believed--particularly with Joel, and maybe Rhonda; hell, he honestly had doubts about half the damn police station!--but he wasn't going to worry the younger man. 

"So," continued Ellison, "the loft had better be picked up and the bathroom clean, Sandburg, or your ass is mine." 

"You wish," Blair breathed huskily, an impish light dancing in his eyes. "Maybe your ass will be mine, instead." 

The audible swallow on the other end of the line was his reward. 

"Sandburg." 

Laughing again at Jim's slightly strangled growl, Blair complained, "Well, if you won't let me talk dirty to you; I might as well hang up." 

"Good idea." Ellison sounded distinctly relieved. "See you Friday evening." 

"Tomorrow," Sandburg confirmed happily. Giving in to his inner demon, he whispered, "I'd better go check the lube supply, eh? Love you, bye!" Selfsatisfied grin stretching from ear to ear, he hung up on the sputtering cop. 

<<<>>>

"Where's Ellison?" demanded Simon Banks as he breezed through Major Crime's double doors early Tuesday morning. 

"He's not here yet, Captain," answered Rhonda. "You want to see him as soon as he arrives?" 

"Sooner," growled the tall, powerfully built African-American police captain. "Of all the days for On-Time Ellison to be late. Chief Warren wants a meeting in fifteen minutes, and the detective he specifically requested be present isn't even in the building yet!" 

A sudden tense look came over the dark face and he whirled on the hapless Taggart. The Bomb Squad captain just happened to be entering the bullpen. "Ellison is back in town, right? Rafe made it back?" 

"Rafe is here; I just saw him going into Forensics," Joel soothed with a grin. "As for Jim-Blair and I talked for a bit on the phone last night, and he mentioned that Jim was out picking up their dinner." 

Banks huffed out a sigh. "Thank god," he mumbled, heading into his office, trailed by the other man. "This is probably Sandburg's fault. Jim got back into town on Saturday afternoon, and more than likely found that the kid had trashed the loft. Knowing him, Jim's still cleaning up." 

"Well," drawled Taggart, propping himself against Banks' desk, "according to Blair, Jim didn't get back to Cascade on Saturday. He got his ticket switched to Friday afternoon right after the seminar ended." 

"Huh?" Pausing in the middle of taking off his raincoat, Banks stared at his friend. "Jim came back early? Why?" A sudden smile came over his face and he chuckled. "I bet Sandburg was planning on throwing a wild party Saturday night, and Jim somehow caught wind of it." 

"Oh, I think Blair might've had something to do with it," mused Taggart, a speculative smile lighting his face. "But, somehow, I don't think Jim was all that worried about Blair partying." A small snicker escaped him before he could stop it. 

Banks gave him a blank look. "What on earth are you talking about, Joel?" 

Taggart quickly swallowed his smile. *Watch your big mouth, Joel! Remember, all you have are your suspicions, and those sort of suspicions in the wrong ears could ruin Jim's and Blair's lives.* Joel had known Simon Banks for twenty-seven years, but he really didn't know how the other man would react to any suggestion that Jim Ellison, his best detective and close friend, was possibly living an `alternative lifestyle'. 

Realizing that Banks was still awaiting an answer, he conceded, "Just thinking out loud, Simon. You're probably right about why Jim came back early." 

"I know I'm right," grumbled Banks, pouring himself a large mug of coffee. The Major Crime captain had recently sprung for a programmable coffee machine so that he could have a fresh, hot cup the moment he got to his office. He held the pot up toward the other man then, when Taggart shook his head, placed it back on its burner. "I'll tell you something else I'll be right about; my budget won't be worth shit if Ellison doesn't get his ass to that meeting on time!" 

"What meeting is that, sir?" came a quiet, amused voice from behind the police captains. 

"It's about damn time you showed your face this morning!" shot back Banks, turning to face his errant detective. Hands on hips, he glared at the two grinning men framing his office doorway. 

Ex-Army Ranger Jim Ellison was casually propped against the door jamb. Tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he had piercing cornflower blue eyes and continued to wear his soft brown hair cut militarily short. His classically handsome face, with its aristocratic nose and square, stubborn jaw, held a hint of amusement; a slight grin pulled up one corner of the long, sardonic mouth. 

Ellison's ever-present shadow, Blair Sandburg, stood just behind and to one side of the big detective. Shorter than the cop by several inches, the grad student was not as overtly muscled as his unofficial partner, but his body was sturdily and compactly built. The long, chestnut curls hung loose that morning, framing a youthful face that was beautiful in a completely masculine way. His azure eyes sparkled with delight at having caught Banks' unaware. The full, cupid's bow lips were stretched wide in a teasing smile. 

As was normal, the two men were standing pressed against each other. It had been quite a shock to the rest of his fellow police officers, when the usually stand-offish and brusque Ellison had allowed the hyper-enthusiastic, freespirited Sandburg to so quickly and effortlessly invade his life, apartment and personal space. In the beginning, more than a few eyebrows had been raised at their almost continual touching but now, nearly eighteen months after the younger man had been granted his observer's pass, no one gave their behavior a second glance. 

Practically no one--the two men's constant invasion of each other's personal space continued to offend Simon Banks' sense of private and professional decorum. Even though he was aware of Sandburg's true reason for being with Ellison, knew full well that the Sentinel needed the frequent, grounding touch of his Guide in order to function without distress, it still made the older man uneasy at the sight of two men sharing all that casual intimacy. Currently, however, Banks had a more urgent objection and just gave a mental sigh at the unselfconscious display. 

"Where the hell have you been, Ellison?" he griped. "Get back into town a day early, have three whole days off and you still can't show up for work on time?" 

Intent on his grievance, he failed to notice the slight flush that came over Sandburg's expressive face. 

"Sorry, Captain," apologized Ellison, covering his reminiscent smile with one hand. He coughed to clear his throat, then offered, "There was, um, an unusual amount of traffic this morning." He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Banks' desk. "We are only two minutes late, sir." 

Seeing that Banks was still looking faintly nettled, Sandburg thought it best to change the subject. "What meeting were you talking about, Simon?" 

Opening his mouth to once again object to the authority-blind Sandburg's use of his given name, Banks abruptly decided it was too early in the day to get his ulcer upset. "Chief Warren is on his way down here," he informed the newcomers. Sitting down in his desk chair, he fixed an austere look on Ellison. "He particularly wanted you here, Jim." 

"Me? Why?" protested the detective. "I haven't done anything lately!" 

Taggart and Sandburg exchanged a quick grin. 

"Well," began Blair, sliding backward toward the bullpen, "sounds like you're going to be busy, Jim. I'll just go park myself at your desk and wait like a good little observer." 

Ignoring Banks' sotto voce "That'll be the day." , Ellison grabbed a flannel-covered forearm. "Whoa there, Chief," he expostulated. "Where the hell do you think _you're_ going? Partners, remember?" 

Holding up a hand to stop Sandburg's protests, Banks stated, "The kid is right on this one, Jim. This meeting is official police business; Sandburg doesn't belong there." At the stubborn look on the chiseled face, Simon hardened his tone, "I mean it, Ellison. Sandburg does not belong at an official meeting with the chief of police." 

"He's more than welcome to stay," came a gravelly baritone from behind Blair. "In fact, I want him present." 

Yelping in surprise, Blair whirled to confront a short, portly man with pure white hair. "Chief Warren!" 

Brushing past the startled anthropologist, Warren gave a nod to Ellison and Taggart before saying to Banks, "I figured Sandburg would be with Ellison, Simon. This case is pretty brutal and time-delicate; I want my best partnership on it." 

"Partnership?" Simon questioned blankly. "What partnership? Ellison doesn't have a partner; Sandburg isn't actually a member of the police force. Also, sir, if this case is as critical as you suggest, is it wise to let an untrained civilian get involved?" 

"I don't care that Sandburg is technically a civilian," the chief said firmly. "Hell, he's done more toward saving lives and property than half the real cops around here." 

Warren gracefully overlooked Banks' scowl at this remark, although he did acknowledge Jim's grin of pride with a wink in his direction. Then he went on, "This case is going to take something special, and I want my top team working it." 

"Uh, sir?" Blair said hesitantly. He seemed to be having trouble quelling his own proud smile. "I'm honestly flattered by your statement, but perhaps Si--I mean, Captain Banks--is correct. Major Crime has several excellent detectives who could capably assist Jim." 

"No way, Sandburg!" declared Ellison. 

"I agree." Warren shook his head. "I've no idea how you and Sandburg work your voodoo, but you're definitely going to need it." He glanced down at his watch. "Shall we get down to business, gentlemen? I have another meeting in ten minutes." 

"Of course, sir." Giving in somewhat ungraciously, Banks gestured his superior over to the small table by the window. Regardless of Warren's assurances, he still felt uneasy over Sandburg's presence. God knew the grad student already had a distressing habit of sticking his nose into areas of police work he had no business being anywhere near. Now, with Warren's apparent approbation, Sandburg would feel he had carte blanche to step all over proper police procedures. 

As Joel Taggart left and closed the door behind himself, the men settled around the table. 

"What's this about, sir?" Ellison questioned soberly. 

"This is about a vicious and sadistic serial killer, Ellison." Warren's voice was hard and cold. "Four men have been tortured to death in four years and we didn't even know the murdering bastard existed until late yesterday afternoon." 

Shocked silence filled the room. 

Finally, Banks broke the tension. "How is that possible, sir?" 

He glanced around the table and noticed that, while Ellison's face hadn't lost its habitual impassive expression, his jaw muscles had clenched. Sandburg, on the other hand, had gone pale and was looking a little sick. This is why the kid doesn't belong here, Banks argued to himself. He can't handle the nasty stuff and Jim gets distracted looking after him, instead of concentrating on the case at hand. 

"Unfortunately, it happened easily enough," sighed Warren. "The first three murders each took place in three different precincts. What surprises the hell out of me is that the press didn't put it together, either. I'm damn grateful for that, but surprised all the same. It wasn't until the Pinewood precinct had a second killing yesterday morning with the same basic m.o., that anyone got suspicious and put out a query on similar murders. A detective over there got more than he bargained for when the reports came in and he immediately contacted his captain, who then came running to me." 

The chief of police leaned forward in his chair. Placing his hands on the table, he fixed Ellison and Sandburg with a gimlet eye. "This mess is now officially yours, gentlemen. Detective Ron Morrell over at Pinewood has their two case files; he's been told to expect you this morning. Northern Shore and Bayside Heights are sending their case files over by courier; they should be here by the time you get back. Captain Banks will turn any cases you have open over to someone else; these murders are your top priority. Whatever you need to get to the bottom of this, just have Simon let me know and you've got it." 

"Yes, sir," Ellison said crisply. "Sandburg and I will get right on it." 

"Good." Warren got to his feet and headed out. Before he left, however, he turned back. "I just want you to know, Ellison...personal differences aside, I have every confidence that you and your partner are going to solve these killings quickly and efficiently." 

Turning back, he strode out of the office. 

"'Personal differences aside', sure," scoffed Ellison, breaking a moment of grim silence. He looked over at Banks and grimaced. "I just can't decide if he really wants me to stop this maniac, or is just waiting for me to screw up so he can fire my ass." 

"Jim!" chided Sandburg, caught between laughter and severity. 

Simon, however, had worries of his own. "Assign your open cases to someone else," he grouched. "Easy for him to say. Major Crime currently has nineteen open cases, two detectives out on vacation, one still in the hospital from the McGrath shoot-out, and one claiming to be sick at home. Where the hell am I supposed to assign your open cases?!" He rubbed his face; thirty minutes into his day and he already had a headache coming. 

"Ah, come on, Simon," coaxed Sandburg. "It's not Lowell's fault he caught chicken pox from his kid! He didn't do it on purpose. At his age, that stuff can be deadly; he's just lucky he didn't end up in the hospital." 

"I know that, Sandburg," ground out Banks, glaring at the younger man. "But that doesn't help me, now does it?" 

"The Whittier case is my only actual ongoing investigation," Ellison declared. Two weeks earlier, Benjamin Whittier, a thirty-seven year old AfricanAmerican factory foreman, had been found bludgeoned to death on the factory floor. No one claimed to have seen anything suspicious or to know anything about the assault. "Two others--the Bellamin jewelry heist and the missing Symenski woman--are practically dead in the water. I was about to consign them to cold storage. I finished up my final report on the Dan Matson arson thing before I left for the seminar." He thought for a second, and then suggested, "How about drafting Joel for the duration? You know how he's always eager to brush up on his detective skills. Warren said you could have any assistance you needed." 

"Actually, Warren said you could have any assistance needed," Banks rejoined caustically, "but I see your point. I'll run it by Joel; if he's not busy and agrees with it, then I'll check with Warren about seconding him for a couple of days." 

Ellison stood. "Well, you and I had better head over to the Pinewood precinct, Chief." 

"I've got to give Human Resources my bi-yearly drug test sample first." Sandburg climbed to his own feet. "I'll meet you at the truck, okay?" 

"Sure thing." 

As the door closed behind the anthropologist, Banks rose and, looking over at his friend, said, "I know you don't want to hear this, Jim, but I want you to be extra careful out there. Sandburg might be a smart kid, but he's not a cop. I'm a little uneasy about you taking on a hairy case without proper backup." 

"Sandburg's all the backup I need," Ellison returned confidently. He was opening the office door when Simon spoke again. 

"Oh, hey, Jim; I just thought of something. What time do you want me to pick you up Saturday morning?" 

Ellison looked confused. "Saturday?" 

"Yeah. Saturday's the opening day for the Cascade Auto Show, remember?" prompted Banks. 

Ellison's face cleared. "Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten." He shook his head. "I'm going to have to give it a pass this year, Simon; but thanks, anyway." 

"Pass?" It was Banks' turn to be puzzled. "But we go every year, Jim." 

"Yeah, that's why I thought you wouldn't mind a change. See, Sandburg's been putting up a new exhibit at Rainier's Museum of Natural History. The grand opening is Saturday at three o'clock and Blair is really uptight that everything goes according to plan." Ellison grinned. "I told him I'd tag along as moral support." 

"You're going to skip our yearly trip to the auto show to attend a museum opening with Sandburg, instead." The deep voice was flat. 

"I thought you might want to take Daryl this year," Jim offered slowly. A slight frown came into the blue eyes. "is there something wrong, Simon?" 

Feeling a little stab of hurt, Banks walked over to his coffee pot. The two men always spent the opening day of the auto show together. On that day, there was no Captain Banks and Detective Ellison; all mention of police work was banned. It was just two friends cruising Cascade Indoor Arena and admiring the latest automotive models and the always-innovative concept cars. The outing had started the year Jack Pendergrast had disappeared; that year, Banks had planned on taking Taggart, but Joel had come down with a bad cold. Deciding on a whim to ask Ellison if he'd like to go, Banks had been surprised when the other man accepted. He'd been even more pleasantly surprised to realize later that he'd had a good time with the broody detective. The second year, when Banks had approached Taggart about attending, the other man had suggested Simon ask Ellison again. Warily, Banks had done so and, once again, was relieved at how good of company Ellison could be when he was relaxed. From that year onward, Simon had started looking forward to the annual outing; he'd had no doubts Ellison felt the same. 

It seemed he'd been mistaken. 

"Wrong? What could be wrong?" Simon poured himself another mug of coffee. Carefully not looking at the other man, he said gruffly, "You'd better be heading over to Pinewood, hadn't you?" 

Giving a mental shrug, Ellison dismissed his friend's odd behavior. 8Maybe he and Daryl had a fight or something.* Opening Banks' office door, he said, "On my way, Captain." 

"Keep me informed, Detective," Banks called after him. 

"Yes, sir." 

Shutting the glass door behind him, Ellison headed for his desk chair to retrieve his jacket. Sliding into the garment, he almost knocked into Rafe, who was heading back to his desk from the copier. 

"Whoa!" The handsome junior detective grinned. As was his habit, the slender form was encased in a well-cut designer suit with contrasting shirt and tie; the dark head had not a hair out of place. "One of us had better watch what we're doing." Seeing the scowl on the older man's face, he ventured, "New case?" 

Ellison grunted in affirmation. "Personally bestowed upon Sandburg and me by Chief Warren, himself." 

"Ah, the joys of being teacher's pet," Rafe sighed whimsically. 

Throwing him a dirty look, Ellison left the bullpen. 

<<<>>>

Thirty minutes after leaving Central, Ellison was approaching their destination. Looking out the Expedition's side window, Sandburg gave a low whistle. Most of the roads leading off Calumet Boulevard were marked `Private Drive Only' and were blocked by huge, metal gates. 

"Pretty rare atmosphere around here," observed the grad student. "Funny, you don't think of murder happening in these sort of places. I mean, people here have all these locked gates and private security systems; hell, most of them probably have their own security guards! Makes it awfully difficult for someone to even gain access to the homeowners, let alone kill them." 

"Makes it difficult for a stranger, Chief; but what if the killer isn't a stranger?" observed the cop, slowing for the turn into the parking lot of the precinct. "Even millionaires have families, friends and business associates. Those people are generally admitted without another thought." 

"So you're thinking our killer could be someone who knew the victim?" asked Sandburg as Ellison pulled into a convenient parking slot. 

"I didn't say that." Ellison turned off the engine. "I merely said those sort of people have an easier time getting in and out. Let's not jump the gun here, Chief," Jim remarked, getting out of the vehicle. "We haven't even read the files yet. It's a bit premature to be forming theories." He waited until Sandburg came up beside him and then set off across the parking lot toward the lowslung building. 

"Somehow, I don't think those files are going to make for a pleasant reading experience," muttered Sandburg, holding open the frosted glass door. 

Being as they were in public, Ellison settled for giving his lover's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they entered the cool, pastel tones of the lobby. He headed straight for the duty sergeant behind the wide oak desk as Blair looked around in curiosity. * Money certainly talks, *the anthropologist thought cynically, taking in the blatant differences between this police station lobby and the one at Central. *Heaven forbid these people have to do without plush carpeting, real wood furniture and expensive art when they come in to report their illegal alien maid, nanny or gardener--who they're not even paying a living wage--just ran off with a piece of the family silver.* 

Blair tried to shrug off those misanthropic thoughts as Ellison re-joined him. 

"Come on, Chief." Ellison jerked his head to the left. "This way. Morrell is waiting for us in a conference room." 

Following the directions given to him by the duty sergeant, Ellison led the way down a pushily carpeted hallway. At the end, he stopped before a wooden door and knocked once, then turned the gleaming brass knob to open the door. He entered first; Sandburg close on his heels. A man was rising from a chair beside the table, hand out-stretched in greeting. 

"Ellison. Sandburg." The man nodded as he said each name and shook their hands. "I'm Ron Morrell. Have a seat." 

The Pinewood precinct detective was a tall, lean, middle-aged man whose graying blond hair had receded even further than Ellison's. Intelligent brown eyes inspected them from behind wire-rimmed glasses. As befitted the section of Cascade he served, he was dressed in an expensive-appearing suit and matching tie, with a gleaming white dress shirt, and dark, shiny shoes. 

Man, Warren sent the wrong guys, Blair thought irreverently. Glancing over at his partner's comfortable teal sweater and dark brown khakis, then down at his own black and red plaid flannel shirt and faded blue jeans, he gave a mental head shake. We're not dressed properly for this part of Cascade. He caught the quick, amused glint in clear blue eyes and knew Ellison was thinking the same thing. 

"How'd you know which one of us was which?" queried Blair, seating himself beside Ellison. "We haven't met before, have we?" 

"I've seen Ellison on the evening news a time or two," Morrell replied, taking his own seat. 

Sandburg tossed his partner a teasing grin. "Jeez, Jim, looks like you're famous." 

Ellison didn't deign to answer, although he did scowl blackly in Sandburg's direction. Turning to Morrell, he said gruffly, "Warren said you have the files of the two murders in your area?" 

"Yeah." Not taking offense at the other cop's no-nonsense attitude, Morrell indicated two brown folders. The older one was battered and thick, with papers fairly oozing out; it was held together by a ragged piece of string tied around it. The other was thin and new, containing only a few papers and a large photo envelope. Tapping on the older file, the Pinewood detective said, "Our first victim was back in 1993: Douglas Carl Adler, age thirty-eight; owner of the `EZ Clean' string of dry cleaners. Adler was found on his front door step by his housekeeper when she reported for work on the Monday morning; she'd had the weekend off. Coroner said he'd been dead around forty hours by that time. Walt Kiefer was put in charge of the case; from what I could see by reading over the file, he was never able to develop a strong suspect." 

"Could we speak with Detective Kiefer?" asked Sandburg. He shot a look over at Ellison. "You know, kind of pick his brains...that sort of thing." 

Morrell shook his head. "Wish you could, kid, but Walt died of lung cancer about two years ago." 

"Oh." 

"So who's your second victim?" queried Ellison, breaking the awkward silence. 

"Terence Allan Langstrom, age fifty-two; founder, chief stockholder and CEO of Langstrom Pharmaceuticals. His body had been dumped in a hedge outside his front gate yesterday morning; the security guard found it around ten when he went to see what was drawing so many crows. The preliminary report puts time of death between nine, Sunday night and three, Monday morning. Wolf said he'd know more after a complete autopsy. Anything Forensics discovered at the scene will, of course, be at their lab back at Central." 

"Hmm," grunted Ellison. "What made you think the two deaths might be related?" 

"Manner of death," answered Morrell, a pained expression on his face. "Both guys were nude; both had been tortured to death--very messily." He shook his head. "I tell you, Ellison; I've been a cop twenty-three years, and I've never seen a human body left in that condition. Hell, you couldn't even tell who the poor bastards were by looking at them or by dental records-their faces were completely smashed in, destroyed. Their wallets were found alongside their bodies, but the only way we got a definitive ID was by DNA; luckily, both of those guys had recently seen their doctors for a physical and blood tests." 

Ellison made a face. "Oh, just great." He reached for the two files, but didn't open them. Conscious of the increased heart rate and respiration from the man sitting at his side, he stood and said resignedly, "If that's all you can give us, we might as well head back." Wanting to give his younger partner a little privacy in order to recover, Ellison dug out the Expedition's keys and held them out. "Why don't you bring the truck around front, Chief, while I finish up here?" 

Swallowing hard against the grotesque images in his mind, Sandburg said, "Sure thing, Jim. Nice to have met you, Detective Morrell." Giving the Pinewood man a slightly shaky smile, he took the keys and left rather more rapidly than normal. 

"Kid going to be all right?" 

Immediately bristling, Ellison turned back to Morrell. On seeing the nonconfrontational look on the narrow face, he bit back his initial retort. "Yeah, he'll be fine." 

Morrell decided to indulge a little of his innate curiosity. "I hear he's not even a cop. How come he's riding along with you?" 

"He's a grad student from Rainier, doing his dissertation on police closed societies." Ellison gave the other detective the standard answer but, feeling as though he had to say more, went on, "He's been riding with me about eighteen months now, and we've gotten into some pretty weird stuff. He makes me crazy with some of the stupid stunts he pulls; even when-especially when-he's trying to protect me. The kid may not be a cop, but he sure has a cop's instincts and he's the best partner I could've asked for. I never worry about my back when he's around." 

Even more intrigued, Morrell nonetheless squelched his desire for further information. "Well, good luck to both of you. I have to tell you, Ellison, I was totally relieved when I got word this morning that I'd been pulled from this case." 

"Can't say that I blame you." Ellison gave the other man a small wave as he left. 

The Expedition pulled up just as he was exiting the precinct. Opening the passenger door, Ellison climbed inside and deposited the files on the floor at his feet. Sandburg waited until the larger man had buckled his seat belt before sliding the vehicle smoothly into the traffic flow. 

Braking for a red light fifteen silent minutes later, Sandburg said levelly, "I know this case is going to be rough, Jim; but I'm not going to screw up. You don't have to worry about me." 

"I never once thought you were going to screw up, Chief," Ellison answered just as evenly. "But you have to realize these crimes were exceedingly bloody and gory." 

Sandburg gave an inward shudder but forced himself to meet the direct gaze. "Yeah, I figured that out for myself." The light turned green again, and he returned his attention to his driving. "I'm not going to deny the crime scene pictures and autopsy reports are probably going to make me sick to my stomach. But I won't let that stop me from helping all I can on these murders." 

"That's another thing I never doubted, Chief." Ellison suddenly turned to look out his window at the passing scenery. "I just wish." 

"Hey, man; none of that guilt-trip crap, okay?" Sandburg only had time to fling a quick glance at his partner. It was getting close to noon and the midtown traffic was increasing correspondingly. "We've talked about this, remember?" 

"I know, I know: You're an adult; you're where you want to be, by your own freely made choice." Ellison parroted back the oft-spoken lines. Sighing, the cop once more looked over at his young lover. "I understand that, Chief; and you know I'll respect your decisions. I just wish, damn it, I just sometimes wish you didn't have to make that choice." 

"In other words," Sandburg said, grinning, "you might have to accept that decision, but you don't have to like it." 

Ellison gave a grin of his own. "You've read my mind exactly." 

Shaking his head over him, Sandburg pulled into the underground parking garage at Central precinct. Sliding the Expedition into its usual spot, he turned off the engine. Handing the keys to his partner, he asked, "How do you want to proceed on this, Jim?" 

Having given the matter some fast thought, Ellison had a ready answer. "Why don't you stop by Forensics and see what, if anything, they found at the latest scene? While you're doing that, I'm going to head over to the morgue to see what Dan got from the autopsy." The structure housing the morgue and its environs was situated just behind the main police building. 

"Better you than me," muttered Sandburg, getting out of the SUV. As Ellison, files tucked securely under his arm, started to walk toward the exit to the street, the anthropologist called out, "I'll have coffee waiting, man." 

The older man waved and briskly strode up the garage ramp. 

Mumbling under his breath, Sandburg got on the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. He was still giving himself a pep talk/strong admonition when the elevator dinged to acknowledge its arrival. *I don't care how bloody and sickening those crime scene photos are, Sandburg; you are not going to throw up. Jim can't solve this case if he's too busy worrying about you. So you're going to look at those photos and keep your cool, you hear me? You can do this; for Jim's sake, if not for the sake of your own self-respect.* 

Mentally fortified, the grad student ambled into the Forensics lab and looked around for a familiar face. Spotting one, he strolled over to a plump, pleasant-faced African-American woman. "Hey, Serena." 

An abstracted frown curling her brows, the woman glanced up from her microscope. Frown clearing upon seeing who had greeted her, Serena Chang said warmly, "Hi, Blair. What brings you into my jungle?" 

Sandburg propped himself against the table next to Serena's stool. "Chief Warren has given Jim the Terence Langstrom case. He wanted me to find out what you guys discovered at the scene." 

"Pretty popular case," Serena commented, pulling the slide she'd been studying out of the microscope. "You're the fourth person I've talked to about it." 

"The fourth?" Blair was puzzled. "Who were the other three? Was Chief Warren one of them?" 

"Yeah, he called early this morning to see what we'd found. Paul Hanson breezed through here yesterday morning as the call came in, so he heard all about it," Serena said distractedly. Most of her attention was focused on inserting a new slide for viewing. "Rafe came in for the final fiber report on the McGrath case today while I was just starting to evaluate the evidence. He stood around while I set up the slides, just making conversation, you know: he mentioned how little evidence we seemed to have, how nothing just seemed to jump out at you. Nothing in particular." 

Blair's entire statement finally registered and Chang frowned again. "Warren's given the Langstrom case to Ellison? How come? That murder happened over in Pinewood's jurisdiction." 

Grimacing, Sandburg ran a hand through his hair. "Well, come to find out, the Langstrom killing is the fourth by what appears to be the same perpetrator. Warren thinks there might be a serial killer running amuck in Cascade and Jim is the lucky guy assigned to stop him." 

"Really?" Serena stared at the younger man for several minutes then, shaking her head, she said, "I wish him luck. God knows he's going to need it this time." 

"Oh, man," mumbled Sandburg, slumping against the table. "I hate it when you Forensic guys say things like that." 

<<<>>>

His usual stoic expression firmly in place, Ellison stepped off the elevator when the door opened on the seventh floor. Automatically weaving his way around the many bodies in the corridor, he stopped when he came to the double doors of Major Crime and looked into the bullpen. On seeing Sandburg talking animatedly with an amused-looking Taggart, he relaxed slightly. *Well, if the other two files did arrive, Blair hasn't looked at them. He wouldn't be so bouncy if he had.* His face darkened as he recalled the bloody mass of tissue and protruding, splintered bones on Dan Wolf's autopsy table and he repeated his promise to himself. There was no way in hell he was going to let his partner see those crime scene pictures. Sandburg could argue until he was blue in the face, but Ellison was adamant. 

Pushing through the doors, he sauntered nonchalantly up to his desk. "What tall tale is he feeding you now, Joel?" 

"Hey, I resent that insinuation!" objected the anthropologist. 

Grin wide, the rotund African-American man shook his head and laughed. "Blair was telling me about the hazards of setting up a museum display. I think de-fusing bombs just might be safer." 

"You got that right," asserted Ellison, dropping into the chair behind his desk. He threw the two folders from Pinewood onto its surface. "But only if Sandburg is the one doing the display; when it's not him, the duty is duller than watching mold grow." 

Laughing again at Sandburg's sotto voce protestations, the older man started to turn away from Ellison's desk, then stopped. "Hey, Jim, Simon tells me it was you who suggested I be given your cases while you're busy with Warren's project. Thanks, I appreciate it. I just hope the old skills haven't rusted over." 

"No thanks necessary, Joel." Ellison shook his head. "I take it Warren okayed the idea?" 

"Yeah. He called down about half an hour ago and gave me the thumbs up." 

"I wouldn't worry about messing up," Ellison assured his friend. "I have every confidence in you, and I know Simon does, too." 

"Thanks, Jim; that's good to hear." Taggart grinned again. "I'd better be getting back to my desk. I'm expecting a call from a witness in the Whittier case." 

"Let me know how that one turns out, will you?" 

"Sure thing," said Taggart, turning to head back to his office. 

As he watched the Bomb Squad captain leave, Ellison was aware he was under close scrutiny. Before he could open his mouth, however, Sandburg ventured quietly, "I'm so sorry you had to see that, man. It must've been horrible." 

Wondering anew at the way his Guide always seemed to know when he was upset, Jim muttered, "It was worse than horrible. I've seen mutilated bodies in my time, but this..." Looking over at his paling partner, he stated softly, "I've seen men in better condition after they'd stepped on a land mine." 

Sandburg gulped and his face went slightly green around the edges. "Oh, man." 

Continuing to hold the younger man's eyes, Ellison declared, "I know you don't like me telling you what to do, but I don't want you seeing those crime scene photos. You can read the files-and the autopsy reports, if you wish-but you're not going to see those damn photos. I mean it." 

To Ellison's eternal astonishment, there was no immediate remonstrations. Eyes downcast, it was apparent that Sandburg was mulling over the issue. A few moments later, the smoky blue eyes lifted and pinned his. "All right, man. I'll go along with it on one condition." 

"What's that?" 

"That if it somehow becomes necessary to solving the case, you'll show me the pictures." Sandburg's eyes held a stubborn glint. "Promise me that, Jim, or it's a no go." 

"I can't see it ever coming to that, Sandburg," argued Ellison. "It's not as if these killings are ritualistic in any way." 

"Promise me, Jim." The husky voice was inflexible. 

Irritation flared, and Ellison had to swallow hard against the harsh words which wanted to escape. *Damn kid, can't he just this once do as he's told without turning the issue into a great debate? But, then again, I'd be worried sick if he ever did give in without a prolonged discussion.* Knowing when he was beaten, Jim said dryly, "All right, Chief; you win. If it somehow seems vital to the case, I will personally sit down with you and let you go over the photos." 

"Fair enough." A wry look seeped into the anthropologist's eyes. "I suspect I should be putting up more of a fight, but I have to confess--I _really_ don't think I want to see those photos." 

"Trust me on this one, Chief," Jim said grimly. "You don't." He finally looked around his desk. Not seeing what he was looking for, he frowned. "So much for Warren's full cooperation." 

"Huh?" Sandburg blinked confusedly at him. 

"The damn files from Bayside Heights and Northern Shore were supposed to be here when we got back, remember?" Jim waved his hand at his tidy desk. "Unless they're invisible, I'm not seeing them." 

"Oh, the files!" Sandburg looked abashed. "I had Rhonda put them in the conference room, man. They were huge--both of them--with papers falling out all over the place. I thought we might commandeer the room so we could spread out and not have to worry about losing anything. Dale from ITS was even nice enough to set up a spare computer in case we might need it." The grad student shrugged and grimaced. "Sorry, Jim; I should've told you right off." 

"No need to apologize, Chief. Actually, that sounds like a great idea." Ellison gathered up the other two files and stood. Grinning down at his partner, he said, "I seem to remember someone promising me coffee when I got back, Sandburg." 

Grinning back, Blair also stood. "I can take a hint, man." He started to leave; then tossed over his shoulder, "You should be glad I didn't have that coffee waiting for you. What was left in the pot looked as if it could walk out of the break room on its own. Lucky for you, I made a fresh pot." 

"Lucky for you, you mean," retorted Ellison. 

After obtaining the door key from Rhonda, Ellison set off for the conference room. Exiting the bullpen, he took a sharp left and then another at the end of the corridor. Entering the first door on his right, he dropped the two folders under his arm onto the table next to two battered-appearing ones. As an afterthought, he went back to the door and changed the room's status sign from `unoccupied' to `in use'. He was just seating himself when Sandburg came in, carrying two cups of steaming coffee. 

"Service with a smile." Carefully placing one Styrofoam cup in front of his partner, Sandburg grinned. 

Ellison grinned back and, reaching for his cup, took a restorative gulp of the hot drink. That done, he sat the cup back down and frowned at the police files. "Well, I suppose we can't put it off any longer." 

"Should we start with the first victim, or the latest?" questioned Blair, pulling out a chair next to his partner. He took a swallow of own beverage. 

"The first victim," Ellison announced after several moments of thought. "Might as well begin at the beginning." 

"I had Rhonda stack the ones from Bayside Heights and Northern Shore in chronological order," Sandburg stated. He pulled those over and looked at the dates written in red on the outside of each folder. "The earliest one here is October 11, 1993. Is the first Pinewood case earlier than that?" 

Ellison glanced down at the older of the two files nearest him. "Yeah. The file is dated January 22, 1993. So Douglas Adler was the first victim, period. Who was the second?" 

"Daniel Eric Taylor; his file is the one from Bayside Heights," reported Sandburg. "The file from Northern Shore is for Emil Lorenz Nunzio. His murder happened March 25, 1996." 

"Finally, Terence Langstrom, May 16, 1997." Ellison sat back in his chair and frowned at the four files. "I can tell you something right off, Chief. Whoever the hell this lunatic is, he doesn't play favorites." 

"Yeah," Sandburg agreed soberly. "Sure, the two from Pinewood were probably fairly rich, but I doubt the Taylor guy ever had two quarters to his name. He couldn't have, not when he lived in that part of town. Bayside Heights is even more disadvantaged than my old warehouse area." He looked over at Ellison. "Isn't Northern Shore mainly family homes?" 

"Strictly middle-class," the cop informed him. "It's the section for all the Ward and June Cleavers of Cascade, but there's also a lot of apartment complexes." 

"He obviously doesn't choose his victims by societal status," observed Sandburg. "It doesn't seem logical that the two guys from Pinewood would've had any social contact with the other two guys. So no connection there." 

"Maybe Taylor and Nunzio worked for either Adler or Langstrom," Ellison suggested. 

Pulling his glasses from his backpack and slipping them on, Sandburg quickly scanned the front page of each file in front of him. "Sorry, Jim," he said, frowning. "Taylor is listed as unemployed--no surprise there--at his time of death. Nunzio worked as a CPA for Donnelley Department Store." 

"Well, there goes the last hope of solving these things before the turn of the millennium," grumbled Ellison. He ran a hand over his face. "I should've known there wouldn't be any obvious connections." 

"Don't give up hope yet, man. Just because something isn't staring us right in the face at the moment, doesn't mean there won't be an easily detected connection found in these files. Maybe it's a piece of physical evidence; maybe it's trace fibers." 

"Speaking of physical evidence and trace fibers." Jim glanced over at Sandburg. "Did Forensics find anything of significance at the Langstrom crime scene?" 

Regretfully shaking his head, Sandburg relayed, "Serena told me that place was just a body dump; Langstrom was actually killed elsewhere. She said there was no stray fibers, bodily fluids or extraneous hairs found. There were a few tiny pieces of wood found in the victim's hair, but she's still working on them. She has no idea if they pertain to the crime, or if Langstrom could've picked them up where his body was discovered; it was a wooded area. Other than that, Forensics came up empty." Taking a deep breath, he asked, "How about his body? Did Dan find any foreign bodily fluids?" 

"No," Ellison said curtly. "The guy had been sexually assaulted, all right, but no semen was found. This bastard is one, sick fuck, Chief; Langstrom's genitals and anus had been severely mutilated. Dan said it looked as if the killer had attacked the area with a garden claw or something. There were also multiple deep bite marks, two of which actually penetrated muscle tissue." 

Blanching rather dramatically, Blair whispered, "Was it possible to tell if that happened before or...after.?" 

"Dan said the genital damage was ante-mortem, as were the bite marks." 

Mind already busily at work on the cases before him, it was several minutes before Ellison stopped frowning at the files. Glancing up, he caught sight of the younger man's ashen, sweating face. "Chief, maybe you ought." 

Blair shook his head. "Don't even finish that thought, Jim." The grad student took several deep breaths, then continued firmly, "We're in this together, remember? I just have a really overactive imagination." He gave a faint grin. "I suppose I should say thanks that you got all protective about the crime scene photos." 

"No thanks necessary, Chief." Ellison shook his own head. "No need to feel badly about it, either. This one is even making my stomach queasy." 

"In that case," Blair said, standing up and grabbing both the coffee cups, "how about I get us some more coffee and we work through lunch?" 

"Good idea," decided Ellison. He reached for the files and started pulling the photo envelopes out of them. "What if I read through the Pinewood files and you read the other two? Then, we'll switch. Once we're done, we can compare, see if one of us spotted something useful." 

"Sounds good to me." Sandburg started out the door. "Be back in a jiff, man." 

"See you in a few, Chief." Taking a deep breath, Ellison flipped open the thick file on Douglas Adler. 

<<<>>>

The shadows were just starting to gather when two exhausted figures stumbled into the loft on Prospect Avenue. 

"Man, I'm in desperate need of a shower," Sandburg declared wearily. "I know we never left the station this afternoon, but I feel like I've been rolling in manure or something." 

"You're not alone, Chief." Ellison threw the deadbolt on the door, then tiredly took off his jacket. "I think I've been rolling in that pile of shit right along with you." Neck and shoulders aching with tension, he headed straight for the sofa and sank down onto it. 

"I'm with Chief Warren; I can't believe the newspapers or TV reporters didn't spot the similarities in those four murders." Sandburg's voice came from behind him. Moments later, two capable hands were gently kneading the cop's stress-tight muscles. 

"Other than the manner of death, there really was nothing readily apparent to tie them together. It was only after we read the police files that we found anything that linked them and even that evidence is pretty damn flimsy." Ellison gave a sigh of relief as the magical hands dissolved knot after painful knot. "I can't believe the only thing we have to go on is a few, small pieces of wood found caught in three of the victims' hair. There probably would've been some on Taylor, except he was found in Cascade Reservoir." 

Blair stopped his massaging and stared thoughtfully down at his partner. "Well, actually, after giving it some thought, I think there might be something else about those men that tie them together." 

Ellison frowned at the loss of the comforting sensation. As the anthropologist came around the furniture and seated himself next to him, he argued, "No, there isn't, Chief. There were no finger or shoe prints, trace fibers, stray items, foreign blood or other bodily fluids found with each of the bodies. Those four were not connected in any personal or professional way: Adler owned a string of dry cleaners, Taylor was a small-time thief and crack head, Nunzio was a CPA and Langstrom was the CEO of a successful corporation. Also, even though they lived within blocks of each other, Adler and Langstrom were strangers to each other. Adler had only moved to Cascade four months before his death; prior that, he'd lived in Yakima." 

"I honestly don't know if it means anything about why they were murdered, Jim, but I did notice something else they had in common." Blair twisted around until he was facing his partner. "None of those guys had any close family." 

Ellison's frown deepened and it was obvious he was mentally reviewing the police files. "Wait a minute, there, Chief," he said slowly. "That's not quite true. Taylor's file listed a widowed mother, with one brother and three sisters; Adler had several aunts, uncles and cousins back east in New Hampshire." 

"Daniel Taylor's family lives in Boise, Idaho. According to his police file, he hadn't had any contact with them since moving to Cascade when he was nineteen. Scattered aunts, uncles and cousins on the opposite coast are not exactly what I would call close family, either, man," shot back Blair. 

"What are you getting at, Chief?" 

"None of them were married, had been married, or were in process of getting married." 

Ellison just looked at him, eyebrow raised in confusion. 

"Jim, look at it logically--Douglas Adler was thirty-eight, Daniel Taylor was twenty-nine, Emil Nunzio was forty-one and Terence Langstrom was fiftytwo. Doesn't it strike you as the slightest bit strange that none of them had been romantically involved with a woman? By the laws of statistics alone, three of them should've been married at least once, if not twice, before they died. Yet, none of these guys left a grieving widow, a steady girlfriend, or even an occasional girlfriend behind!" 

"Are you telling me that you think these guys were all gay?!" Jim stared at his partner for a few seconds, then shook his head. "That's a hell of a leap of logic, Chief. Just because none of them had ever been married." 

"Or had ever had a steady girlfriend," retorted Sandburg. He glared at Ellison, then shrugged. "Maybe they weren't gay, maybe all four were just shy wallflowers. All I'm saying, man, is that none of them left any women behind. Perhaps it means nothing, but we shouldn't overlook the possibility just because it seems farfetched." 

"I don't like the ramifications involved; but you're right, it is another common factor," admitted Ellison. He groaned and laid his head back against the sofa. "Shit, if you're correct on this, Chief, I can just hear Warren now...and if the press ever catches wind that we've got a serial killer targeting gay men." He groaned again and closed his eyes. 

"Police work can be a real bitch," empathized Blair, inching closer to his partner. Stroking a hand up and down Ellison's right thigh, he said ingenuously, "You need to unwind, man. This case already has you knotted up tighter than an old pine tree." 

Ellison cracked open one wary eye. "Just how would you suggest I do that?" The dry tone had a heavy inflection of hope in it. 

Leaning closer, Blair planted a tender, yet thorough, kiss on the tempting mouth. Luxurious minutes later, their lips just touching, he suggested softly, "How about you go upstairs and strip out of all those unnecessary clothes?" 

A graceful hand slid into the younger man's long, loose hair and gave a gentle tug. Taking possession of the siren mouth, Jim milked and bit the full lips until they were swollen and strawberry-red. Pulling back slightly so they could breathe each other's exhalations, he asked huskily, "After that.?" 

"You, me, a nice, big bed." offered Blair, running a caressing tongue tip over Ellison's lower lip. ".and a Sandburg deluxe massage. How's that sound?" 

"Sounds like heaven." 

"Then it's a plan." Blair gave one last lick to Ellison's lower lip, then pulled back. As he stood, he said, "Why don't you head upstairs while I get the massage oil and warm it up?" 

Ellison was halfway up the stairs before his lover finished speaking. Pausing at the top, he warned lightly, "Don't take too long, Chief. This old man might cool off if he has to wait." 

"That's all right, Jim; I'm very good at re-heating things." 

Shivering at the sultry promise in the seductive tones, Jim commenced stripping. He threw the discarded clothing at the chair in the far corner of the bedroom, for once not really caring if the garments actually landed on it. Crossing to the wide bed, he pulled the sunshine yellow duvet back to the foot. He was just arranging himself face-down on the emerald green sheets when he heard Blair start up the stairs. 

Coming up to the bed, Blair placed a small cup of scented oil, along with a new tube of lubricant, on the bedside table. Then, he stood there for some moments, just staring in wonder at the bounty spread before him. 

Curious at the lack of movement, Jim turned his head to look at his lover. "What are you doing, Chief?" 

"Just looking." Quickly divesting himself of his clothes, Blair walked over to the bed. Resting one knee on the edge of the mattress, he ran a proprietary hand down the strong back presented to him. Voice as smooth as silk, he purred, "Just enjoying the sight of what's mine, all mine. Others may get glimpses of bits and pieces, but only I get to see all of it." Leaning down, he pressed a reverent kiss to the small of his lover's back, just above the swell of firm buttocks. 

"Possessive little bastard," grumbled Ellison half-heartedly. Inwardly, however, he joyfully hoarded away each confirmation of the younger man's commitment. The words would soak into his soul, soothing and healing the dry, withered edges; completing him long after he'd resigned himself to always feeling empty. 

"Yeah, I'm possessive," Blair agreed blandly, placing small, stinging bites along the curve of the tight cheeks. "I've never had much, Jim. Naomi taught me it was wrong to be so greedy; to want someone so totally and expect them to want you back. So I learned to make do with what I could get. But now, I've got it all. I've got the winning lottery ticket, the brass ring...I've got you." 

Chest tightening with overwhelming emotion, Jim vowed thickly, "You've got me, babe; don't you ever doubt that. You've got me for as long as you want me." 

"Then you'd better be making reservations in both our names at the nursing home." Moving up, Blair straddled the cop's narrow hips. "Because now that I finally have you, I'm not letting you go, man. Not ever." 

"Good." 

Smiling at the pure satisfaction Ellison invested in the one, short word, Sandburg leaned over and snared the cup of massage oil. Letting a small amount drizzle onto the tense back, he set the cup back on the bedside table before commencing a firm kneading of the broad shoulders. 

"God, Chief; your hands should be listed as lethal weapons," groaned Jim, feeling his tension starting to drain away. 

"We aim to please." 

Quiet descended, broken only by Jim's occasional contented grunt as knot after stubborn knot disappeared under his lover's knowing hands. Continuing to smile as he worked, Blair leaned his weight into his strokes. Contrary as to how it would appear to any casual onlooker, the cop wasn't the only one being pleasured. Blair could never get enough of the feel of velvetysoft skin over rock-hard muscle; touching his lover was an addiction he had no wish to cure. He had spent many a happy hour massaging and stroking Jim's suede-smooth skin-from the expansive, hairless chest, down the perfectly sculpted abdomen, to the long, tapering legs and well-formed feet. Then there was the flip side with its wide, muscled back and taut, round buttocks. It was pure sensual delight to touch Jim and Blair always felt a pang of loss when he was forced to stop doing so. 

Uncounted minutes passed. Then, rubbing a thumb into the ball of a strong foot, Blair gave a small laugh at sight of the man sprawled limply across the bed. "You all right there, Jim?" 

"If I were any more all right, Chief, it be illegal." Ellison's words were muffled due to his face being buried in a pillow. Turning his head with great effort, he muttered, "I don't think there's a stiff muscle left in my entire body." 

Blair affected massive disappointment. "Not one?" 

Ellison gave a wide grin. "Well, there might be one," he conceded, rolling over to reveal a prodigious erection. 

An answering grin on his face, Blair stooped and pressed his lips to the middle of the broad chest; then he gently rubbed his evening-stubbled face against it. Hearing Ellison's breath start to catch, he grinned again. Brushing his nose against Jim's right nipple, he kissed and nipped at it, re-learning its shape and texture. Long, luscious minutes later, he drew his cheek across the delve between muscular breasts and tongued the other nipple, feeling it out with his teeth, giving it a slight bite of invitation. 

With a groan, Jim caught Blair's head in both hands, bringing him up to share tender, nuzzling kisses. Tongues dueled and stroked while seeking hands explored and claimed already-conquered territory. 

"God, I love you," panted Blair, kissing Jim's shoulder and tonguing the slab-shape of his pectoral muscle. 

"Not half as much as I love you," the Sentinel answered, breathless as the stroking hands began to interfere with his ability to think. 

"Should we have a fight over who loves who more?" his Guide offered, milking the large shaft pressing eagerly against his thigh. 

"Maybe later," Jim decided. He grabbed the beautiful face so he could once again devour those succulent lips. 

Flipping the shorter man over so that he was lying against the green sheets, Jim nosed his way through the silky hair gracing the grad student's chest. Finding one rose-brown nipple, he bit at it gently, feeling it engorge with pleasure. Not wanting the other one to feel neglected, he languidly transferred his attentions to it. Soon it, too, was cherry-red and hard. Continuing his sensuous journey, Jim licked and nipped his way to the firm stomach. Reaching down, he grasped the hot, thick length of his lover's cock. Tracing the shape of it, he toyed with the helmeted head and tickled the sensitive underside. Breaking off kissing his lover's navel, he bent over and, with the tip of his tongue, collected the pearl of moisture leaking from the needy eye. He chuckled at the resultant moan. 

"Christ!" Breathing unsteadily, Blair clutched at Ellison's head. He shivered violently as a knowing tongue teased his shaft, licking up and down the throbbing organ, dipping time after time into the eye to sip the salty fluid it wept. 

Lifting his head, Jim reached out and grabbed the unopened lube. Taking off the lid, he squeezed a goodly amount onto his fingers. "Hey," he exclaimed, temporarily diverted. "This stuff is already warm!" 

"It's new," gasped Blair, pulling up his knees to allow his lover better access. "It's supposed to self-warm upon contact with skin." 

Jim shook his head over the wonders of modern life. "What'll they think of next?" 

"Do you think you could get back to the matter at hand?" snarled Blair, balls tight and aching. "I'm in need of a little assistance here, man! Jim!" 

Chuckling evilly, the cop laid a teasing kiss on the grad student's quivering stomach muscles. "Easy there, Chief," he rumbled. "Or I just might decide to finish reading my book, instead. I'm nice and relaxed now." 

"You do that," Sandburg ground out, "and I'll...I'll..." 

"You'll what, Chief?" pressed Jim, gently trailing a tickling finger across Sandburg's sensitive perineum. 

"You're a Sentinel," Blair said between gritted teeth. "You'll zone sometime!" 

Laughing delightedly, Jim squeezed more lube onto his fingers. "Should I take that as a threat?" He slowly rimmed the waiting hole with the silky fluid. The orifice soon opened, letting a searching finger slip inside. 

"It's a fucking promise!" 

Biting back another laugh, Jim said solemnly, "Then I guess I'd better get on with it." 

Although his own balls were painfully knotted, Jim took his time making his lover ready to receive him. This act of intimacy was not uncommon between them, yet Jim remained determined to never cause Blair a moment's discomfort. Massaging the younger man's testicles with his free hand, he worked in two, then three fingers, carefully stretching the guardian muscle. 

Finally certain Blair was ready, Jim shifted and drew the anthropologist's hips onto the slope of his thighs. "Okay, Chief?" he asked, sweat pouring down his face as he attempted to rein in the instinctive urge to just plunge into his mate. 

"Just do it already!" 

"I hear and obey, master," Jim replied tightly. Taking a deep breath, he slowly impaled his impatiently waiting lover. 

"At fucking last," sighed Blair. "I thought I was going to go gray before you got it in there." He wrapped sturdy legs around Ellison's hips and strained upward. 

Oddly enough, there were no fireworks this night. The gradual slide into orgasm was breathtaking, however; and Jim seemed to come for minutes on end. Just when he was sure he was on the brink, the shocks of pleasure dwindling, he would take a breath and the spasms would begin again. As he came, he felt the hard, jerking pulses of Blair's cock; felt the warm gush of his seed spreading between them. Their orgasms were only seconds apart and the sense of sharing was overwhelming. 

An unknown amount of time later, Jim had recovered enough to mumble, "You okay?" 

From where he was lying, starfished on the sheets, Blair returned the mumble. "Just peachy, thanks." Lifting a still-shaking hand, he laid it on the muscled forearm beside him. Rubbing the softly-furred appendage, he slurred, "That performance so totally deserves a reward. Give me a few minutes to catch my breath and I'll fix you a lovely dinner. I prepped it last night; all I have to do is cook it." 

"Really?" Interest surging, Jim managed to raise his head. "What are you fixing?" 

"Red-cooked chicken, wild rice with mushrooms and almonds, and ginger-infused sugar snap peas." 

Taste buds already slavering in anticipation, Jim discovered the energy necessary to roll to his side. Propping his head up with one hand, he gazed expectantly at his lover. 

<<<>>>

Stifling a yawn, Ellison stepped off the elevator early Wednesday morning and headed down the corridor toward Major Crime. Instead of immediately going through the double doors, he took a small detour into the break room. He'd already had two cups of coffee with his breakfast, but more caffeine was needed to jump-start his sleep-heavy brain that morning. The prior night had been short, but memorable. Grinning to himself, he poured a large mug of steaming, fresh coffee. 

"That is one, smug smile you're wearing there, Ellison." The perky observation came from behind the big cop. 

Having heard the other man come in, and recognizing the person's cologne, Ellison turned and gave an unperturbed grin. "Morning, Hanson. How's Life?" 

Paul Hanson, thirty-four years old and a three year veteran of Major Crime, gave a grin and half-shrug as he reached for the coffee pot. "No new cases, thank god." Of medium height and slimly built, Hanson's cheerful face and clownish demeanor camouflaged a deadly-keen intellect. Always attired in designer clothes-be it suits or more casual wear-he and Rafe often held playful competitions as to which one could out-dress the other. The results of those contests frequently left the bullpen blinking. Fixing bright green eyes on his colleague, Paul said gleefully, "Looks like you must've had a good night. You might want to consider wearing a turtleneck the next time your, umm...partner...gets feisty." 

Giving an uncommunicative shrug, Ellison just smiled blandly and lifted an eyebrow. "I'll keep that in mind." *If he was referring to the idea of me and Blair, it sure doesn't seem to bother him much. Better not tell Blair, though. He'd only panic, and I could be reading Hanson all wrong.* 

Seeing that Ellison was refusing to rise to the bait, Hanson decided to switch focus. The gossipy cop was determined to win Central PD's pool of `Were They or Weren't They?' It had been going on for over a year now and the pot had risen to a very tidy sum. 

"So where's Sandburg this morning?" he inquired, trying an end-run. "Exhausted and sleeping-in, is he?" 

"It's Finals next week," Ellison replied easily. "He's at Rainier doing professor-type stuff." 

"Oh." Hanson's face fell, then he recovered. "I took a call for you this morning from Ron Morrell over at Pinewood," he announced, brushing a thatch of thick, brown hair out of his eyes. "He said he was faxing over a list of Langstrom's employees and visitors. So who the hell is Langstrom? I thought you were working on the Benjamin Whittier thing." 

Jim saluted the other detective with his coffee cup. "Thanks for the heads-up." 

"C'mon, Ellison--give. What's this Langstrom got to do with you? If you're not working on the Whittier case, who is?" 

Jim turned back at the break room door. He swallowed a smile at the frustrated look on the lean face; Hanson hated being out of the loop on anything. He decided to throw the other man a few crumbs. "Sandburg and I are working on a special project for Chief Warren. While we're taking care of that, Captain Taggart will be handling my case load; refer any questions or information about Whittier to him." 

"Special project for Warren, huh? Don't suppose it has anything to do with those files locked in the conference room; the ones Captain Banks has labeled `Hands Off' to everybody in the bullpen?" 

"I don't know--could it?" Ellison gave the balked detective another uninformative smile as he left the break room. He made no attempt to hide his grin at the disappointed whine which floated after him. 

"Jesus, what's with all the fucking secrecy all of a sudden? Who're you investigating...the damn governor!?" 

Still chuckling, Ellison entered the bullpen. He was halfway to his desk when he heard his name called. 

"Yes, Rhonda?" he replied, changing course toward the tall blonde's desk. 

"A fax came through for you from Detective Morrell over at Pinewood," she told him. "I put it with the files in the conference room, and Captain Banks wanted to see you when you got in." 

"More damn paperwork," he muttered mournfully under his breath, envisioning long hours wasted at computer and phone work. And there's no reprieve, damn it, until Blair gets here around lunch time. Becoming aware of a slightly strained air, he hurriedly gave a belated smile and took the key to the room from her hand. "Thanks, Rhonda. You didn't have to go to all that trouble; I appreciate it." 

The administrative assistant just snorted and waved him at Banks' office. He hastily took himself off, refusing to believe he'd heard her mumble to herself, "Thanks from Ellison? Blair must be rubbing off on him in more ways than I thought." 

Knocking once on the office door, Jim opened it and stuck his head around the corner. "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

"Oh, yeah, Jim." A large hand gestured the detective into the office. Looking up from his paper-covered desk, Banks declared, "Believe it or not, I've already had Chief Warren on my butt this morning. He wanted to know what progress, if any, has been made." 

"Christ, only twenty-four hours on the case, and he honestly expects results?!" Ellison didn't attempt to mask his astonishment. He dropped into the chair in front of Banks' desk. "It must be a damn election year. Who the hell does he think I am...Superman? Three of those cases are years old!" 

"It's your own damn fault for being so good at your job," Banks said unsympathetically. "So, _do_ you have anything?" 

Ellison made a face at his friend, who merely stared back at him expectantly. "There isn't much to go on," he mumbled reluctantly, "but, yeah, we're not exactly floundering in the dark, here." 

"Three of those cases are years old!" echoed Banks, leaning back in his chair. He gave a triumphant grin and shook his head. "That answer, Jim my boy, is why you're in the running for Cop of the Year; and why Warren assigned you to this case." 

"Well, Warren shouldn't count his chickens just yet," warned Ellison, ignoring the comment about the Cop of the Year award. It was a ongoing battle between him and Banks: when the current nominations had been announced, Ellison had obstinately refused to allow his name to be considered. Banks had flatly refused the refusal and there the matter hung. "I only said we're not entirely clueless. That doesn't mean Sandburg and I are ready to slap the cuffs on anyone in particular." 

"Sandburg can't slap the cuffs on anyone, ever," retorted Simon, smile slipping slightly. Ellison's casual dismissal of their annual outing--just to be with Sandburg--still rankled. "He doesn't carry a badge and the only arrest he can legally make is a citizen's arrest and he'd damn well better not slap a pair on handcuffs on someone during one of those!" 

"You know damn well what I meant," Jim growled. "I just don't want Warren thinking this thing is already halfway in the bag; it's not. Blair's come up with what could be the common denominator in these killings, but it still needs to be proven." 

The smile completely left Banks' face. "Three of those cases have had thousands of man-hours put in by dedicated, hard-working cops. Sandburg does a quick read-through of the material and, miraculously, the cases are solved." Banks had acquired a decidedly cool tone to his voice. 

"Simon, that's not fair, and you know it!" Jim objected heatedly. "There's been plenty of times Blair's theories have been correct. His ideas shouldn't be immediately discounted just because they seem to come from left field; his ability to `think outside the box' is what makes him so valuable around here. Hell, even Warren admits that!" 

For a moment, genuine anger settled on Banks' face and he seemed about to snap back. Then, after taking several deep breaths, the police captain said moderately, "All I meant, Jim, was that, perhaps, you shouldn't go into this with the idea of proving Sandburg's theory is correct. I know you hate to hear this; but it's true: The kid is not a cop. He could be misreading the evidence or blowing something trivial all out of proportion." 

"I saw the same facts, sir, and although I don't entirely agree with Blair's interpretation of them, the theory does have merit," Jim responded levelly, battling with his own irritation. 

"He thoroughly evaluated everything in the files before forming his theory?" pushed Banks. 

Ellison opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. 

"Detective Ellison, I would appreciate an answer." Banks' tone was every inch the police captain's. 

"Sandburg saw all of the files, sir...all but the crime scene photos," Ellison reported stiffly. "He was willing to look at those, but I refused to let him." 

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Banks drawled sarcastically. "So, even though Sandburg knew he hadn't reviewed all the evidence presented, he still managed to come up with this case-solving theory?" 

"His not having seen the photos is irrelevant, sir. I...we...still need to explore his idea--along with several others." 

Noting the obdurate look on his detective's face, Banks knew it was useless to say anything further. _Damn it, I knew this was going to happen,_ he fumed silently. *Jim said himself that he doesn't agree with what Sandburg proposed, but if it'll make the kid happy, Jim will do it. To hell with the fact that it's a waste of police department resources and time; whatever Sandburg wants, Sandburg gets.* 

"I'll let you get back to your work, then, Detective," Banks said coldly. "I told Chief Warren that you would call him with an update when you got in. Don't forget to do so before you start chasing your...theories." 

"Yes, sir," Ellison said curtly, getting to his feet. 

As the door closed behind him, Simon realized that Ellison had never mentioned precisely what Sandburg's disputed theory entailed. *Hell, it doesn't matter. It's probably so far off the wall, it's ludicrous to even consider it might actually help solve this case.* 

The police captain determinedly went back to his overflowing desk. 

Fifteen minutes later, Ellison's annoyance with his captain had vanished. It had been superseded by the familiar exasperation of having to deal with publicly-elected authority figures and their unrealistic expectations. Muttering darkly to himself, the Sentinel rose from his desk and, draining the last of his now-cold coffee, decided he'd make a quick trip down to Forensics before he sentenced himself to the files awaiting him in the conference room. His attention turned inward, he automatically got on the elevator when the door opened. Thus, he had practically knocked Rafe through the car wall before he'd even realized his colleague was present. 

"Sorry," he apologized perfunctorily, steadying the shorter man. "Didn't see you there." 

"My fault, too; I should've been paying more attention to what I was doing." Leaning against the wall of the elevator, the other detective shyly grinned up at Ellison. "What were you thinking about so deeply?" 

"Not thinking, so much as recovering," Jim clarified. "I've only been at work a little over half an hour and I've already had both Banks and Warren on my case." 

"Oh, brother!" Rafe looked properly sympathetic. "I know why the captain's so grumpy; he got into work this morning and found out that his coffee pot had blown a fuse. He's reduced to drinking the same break room swill as the rest of us." 

Ellison grunted in understanding. _That does explain a few things._

"But why would Warren be on your back?" Rafe inquired. "Does it have anything to do with that special project he gave you and Sandburg?" 

"Yeah, and it's a bitch of a case, too," sighed Ellison. "Four guys tortured to death in four years, and they only now made the connection." 

"The Langstrom case? They think it's connected to three others?" Seeing Ellison look at him curiously, the younger detective said, "I read the papers, Jim; I saw where they'd found the body of Terence Langstrom on Monday morning out in Pinewood. The papers didn't say anything, however, about it being part of a serial killing." 

"That's because--thank god for small mercies--the papers haven't made the connection between the four. Personally, I sincerely hope they continue onward in their blissful ignorance; this case threatens to be hairy enough without them horning in." 

The elevator dinged to announce its arrival on the third floor. Reaching out an arm to hold the door open, Rafe said diffidently, "Look, I'm sort of between cases at the moment. If I can be of any help." 

"Sandburg and I have it covered, thanks." Ellison disembarked and started down the hallway. 

"All right, but my offer still stands!" 

Ellison gave him a wave over his shoulder as he turned into the Forensics lab. 

<<<>>>

Suddenly coming upright in his chair at the conference table, Ellison unknowingly let out a relieved sigh. Automatically tuning in to the familiar heart beat as it drew closer, the cop let his back and shoulder muscles relax. *I have been paroled.* The frazzled detective turned a beaming smile toward the door just as his partner breezed in, kicking the door shut behind him. 

"Okay, how bad is it this time?" Sandburg queried resignedly, dropping his backpack onto the table. 

_Huh???_ The cop stared at him, taken aback. "How bad is what?" 

"The computer." Seeing that Ellison was continuing to frown at him in confusion, Sandburg explained, "That smile was way too big, man. There's no mountain of reports needing to be done, so it has to mean you've crashed, infected or otherwise fried, the computer. So, c'mon, Jim: Which one is it this time?" The grad student looked at the detective in anticipation, then transferred his gaze to the computer set up at the end of the table. 

_This could be fun._ "I'll have you know, Sandburg," Ellison said huffily, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, "that it's none of the above." 

"Really?" A look of wary disbelief flitted across the expressive face, closely followed by dark suspicion. "If it's not the computer, then what... Oh." Narrowing his eyes, Sandburg leaned toward his partner and pointed an admonishing finger at him. "I am not backing off and letting you work this case on your own!" 

"Christ!" exclaimed Ellison, dropping his arms and staring, stunned, at the younger man. "When did paranoid and delusional become your world? Can't a guy just be happy to see his partner? Or is that too mundane for you?" 

For several moments, Sandburg continued to glare stubbornly at the big cop then, slowly, his aggressive stance relaxed. "Honestly? You were just glad to see me?" 

"Yeah." Ellison snorted and shook his head. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep the grin from showing, he groused, "God knows why, if that's the attitude I can expect." 

"Oh, hey, man, no!" Scrambling to assuage his lover's bruised feelings, Blair grabbed both of Ellison's hands and held them tightly against his chest. "It's not your fault, Jim; it's mine," the grad student said earnestly. "I just need to broaden my expectations, you know; what with the paradigm shift in our relationship, and all. Give me time, okay? It's only been a few months." 

Ellison couldn't help himself; one corner of his mouth twitched. 

Sandburg noticed. "You asshole!" he complained, grin appearing in spite of himself. "What'd you do; sit here all morning, practicing your `poor little me' routine, instead of working on the case?" 

"Nah, not all morning." Grinning widely, Ellison stretched upward and laid a quick kiss on the tip of the pert nose. "I did actually do some work." 

"Oh, yeah?" Letting go of Ellison's hands, Sandburg dropped into a chair beside him. He inquired solicitously, "Wear yourself out fetching your own coffee?" The anthropologist fluidly ducked the predictable swat aimed at the back of his head. 

"Brat." Glaring sternly at his unrepentant partner, Ellison said, "From now on, you can deal with Banks and Warren. That way, when they start yelling for results again, you can put that always-flapping tongue of yours to good use." 

Sandburg stared at him, nonplused. "You mean, they're already expecting an arrest? Jeez, all but one of those cases are years old!" 

"My response, exactly." 

"So what did you tell them?" 

"I told them that we'd discovered a couple of possible starting places and were going to go from there. That seemed to make them happy." Ellison didn't see the need to comment on Banks' weird mood. He'd known the big African-American for almost five years; when Simon was deprived of his preferred, special-blend coffee, he could fly off the handle over the simplest trifle. "Morrell faxed over a list of Langstrom's business associates, employees, and visitors. As far as a quick computer check shows, they're all your basic, upright citizens. I also stopped down in Forensics and picked up the wood samples from three of our vics." 

"So what did you find? Anything unusual about them?" 

Ellison shook his head. "I haven't checked them yet. Thought I'd better wait until you got here...in case I went too deep," he explained. 

"Good point," Blair said thoughtfully. "You want to do that now? Then, maybe, we could do lunch before heading out to talk with people." 

"Sounds good to me." 

Ellison reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out three, small brown envelopes. Peeling back the red seal, he opened one and peered inside. "Hell, these pieces are tiny," he grumbled. "I don't know what you expect me to find on them." 

"Jim, how many times do I have to tell you this?" Curls flying about his face as he shook his head, Blair lectured patiently, "With your abilities, size really doesn't matter. You should be able to get the same amount of sensory information from a small piece of evidence, as you would from a larger piece. If there is anything to be found, that is," he added hastily. 

"There is that," Ellison said cynically. Pouring the contents of the first envelope into his palm, he lowered his head and took a deep sniff. Immediately, his head reared back and he grimaced. "Whew, that stinks!" 

"What is it?" Blair asked eagerly. 

Cautiously lowering his head again, Jim took another, smaller sniff. "Pine resin, kerosene, some creosote, maybe pine tar." He wrinkled his nose. 

Snagging the empty envelope, Blair peered at the writing. "This is the sample found in Terence Langstrom's hair. Can you tell if the odors are fresh or not?" 

"They smell strong, but I don't know if I'd call them fresh," Jim said slowly, taking another sniff. "There's still a lot of smell to them, but the wood itself feels slightly oily. If that stuff has actually seeped into the wood, the odors could hang around for years." 

Blair quickly opened the other two envelopes. "See what you can get from these." 

Ellison carefully poured the pile of small splinters back into its envelope and re-sealed it. Then, one at a time, he cautiously smelled each of the other two samples. Minutes later, he looked over at Sandburg. "They're each the same, Chief--pine resin, kerosene, creosote, with a little bit of pine tar. The smell's in the wood itself." 

"So the splinters had to have come from some place where those products would have been around long enough, in large enough quantities, to allow it to seep into the walls or flooring," mused Sandburg. 

"That's just great!" Ellison slumped back in his chair. "That really doesn't help much, does it? There are literally hundreds of warehouses in Cascade; add in the fact that it's probably an old, abandoned one because that sort of stuff hasn't been stored in bulk in years, and you'll probably have thousands of warehouses!" 

"Well, we know it's not down by the docks," Sandburg commented briskly, busily re-sealing the last of the evidence envelopes. "You didn't pick up any trace of salt water." 

"That should narrow it down to a couple hundred," Jim griped. 

"Oh, I think the number won't be too high," reassured Blair, grinning. He moved to seat himself in front of the computer. "A fairly old warehouse, not down by the docks, used to store kerosene and pine products. Those parameters should, hopefully, narrow it down considerably. I'll just check with the city building permits office and see if they'll send us a list of those types of warehouses." 

Ellison pushed back from the table. Grabbing the three envelopes, he said, "While you start the search, I'm going to take these back to Forensics. Meet you at the truck in fifteen." 

"Sure thing, man." Sandburg started typing furiously. 

<<<>>>

"Now where to?" questioned Blair, holding open the door for his partner. Kesselman's Deli had been a compromise between Ellison's desire for a `lunch with punch' and Sandburg's wish for something that `won't give me a coronary as I eat it'. 

"Well, since we're on this side of town, let's pop over to Nunzio's apartment building. See what we can find out from his neighbors." 

"If there are any at home," observed Sandburg, climbing into the Expedition. "It's only around two, most people are still at work." 

"All we can do is check." Ellison started the vehicle's motor and waited for a break in the traffic. "Maybe we'll get lucky." 

Or maybe we won't, he thought gloomily, some forty minutes later. He hid a sigh as he prepared to ring another doorbell. "Three people not at home...you could be right, Chief. We might have to do this later this evening." 

At that moment, a tired female voice called through the closed door, "Yeah? Who's there?" 

"Cascade PD, ma'am," responded Ellison, holding his badge up so it could be seen through the door's spyhole. "We'd like to ask you a few questions." 

There came the sound of several locks being thrown, then slowly, the stout wooden door opened to reveal a tall, curvaceous, weary-looking woman in her mid-thirties. Her short blonde hair was standing on end, and she clutched a thick, pale green robe closely to herself. It didn't take a genius to realize she'd been sleeping when they'd rang the bell. 

"I'm Jim Ellison, Cascade PD and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg." Ellison returned his badge to his jacket pocket and nodded at the woman. "Your name is.?" 

"Kathryn Mansfield." 

"Bit late to still be in bed, isn't it, Ms. Mansfield?" 

The woman stifled a yawn behind her hand as she propped herself against the door jamb. "Not with my job." Staring rather blearily at the two men, she said, "I'm a paramedic, work out of the Forty Sixth Street station. I just got off duty at eleven, after a bitching twenty hour shift." Clearly fighting back another yawn, she mumbled thickly, "Now, what can I do for two of Cascade's finest?" 

"Sorry," Ellison apologized sincerely. "I just need to know if you knew Mr. Emil Nunzio when he lived here? He was killed at the end of March, 1996, but some new evidence has since come to light." 

Mansfield shook her head. "I hadn't moved into the building yet. I've only been here about five months." 

"Thanks for your help, Ms. Mansfield. Sorry to have bothered you." 

"No problem." She started to close her door, then stopped. "Hey, you might try Mae Winstead in 425. She's been here for ages, and I know she's home at this time of day." 

"How do you know that?" put in Sandburg curiously. 

The paramedic gave a half-grin. "Because she never misses Oprah, and today's show would've just finished." 

Sandburg was still laughing, while Ellison was shaking his head, as they approached the door of Mae Winstead's apartment. From inside, the Sentinel could hear the low murmur of a television and the sound of someone moving around. Reaching out, he rang the door bell and waited patiently. 

Moments later, the door opened and an elderly woman peered quizzically at them. "Yes?" 

Ellison once again held up his badge as he introduced himself and Sandburg. While she carefully studied his shield, he gave her a quick, but thorough, look-over. Mae Winstead appeared to be in her mid to late eighties; she was four or five inches shorter than Sandburg and somewhat overweight. Her silver hair was combed neatly about her discreetly made-up face and she was dressed in a soft pink sweat suit. 

"Oh, my," she exclaimed, finished perusing the badge. Backing up a few steps, she held the door open wider and gestured for them to enter. Once the men were inside, she shut the door and asked, "What on earth could the police want with me? I haven't had any speeding tickets since my son, Roger, made me sell my car!" 

Biting back his chuckle, Ellison said, "I wanted to speak with you about someone who used to live down the hall; some new evidence has recently come to light in his case. Ms. Mansfield in 421 mentioned that you've lived in the building for quite some time." 

"I've lived here for almost eleven years," she responded, leading the way into a tidy living room. Motioning for them to sit down, she switched off the television in the corner of the room before seating herself in an over-stuffed chair. 

"That's good," said Ellison, sighing with relief. "We're inquiring about someone who lived here until the end of March, 1996." 

"You must mean poor Emil." Mae shook her silvered head. "He really was such a nice man. It was a tragedy he was murdered, and so viciously, at that." A genuine sheen of tears glimmered in her faded blue eyes 

"I take it you knew him well, then, Ms. Winstead?" questioned Ellison. 

"You can use Mrs., Detective Ellison. I'm far too old to care about that politically-correct garbage. Emil was already living in 424 when I moved in; it was just after I'd lost my George. My two boys did the best they could, but they both still worked at that time and sometimes it was difficult for them to visit frequently. Emil was so sweet about helping out if some small thing needed fixing or replacing; I didn't even have to ask most of the time. Whenever he went to the grocery store for himself, Emil always asked if I needed anything. He used to clear my car off for me during the winter months...oh, numerous small, helpful things like that." She trailed off, sniffing a little. 

Pulling a tissue from a box on the occasional table beside him, Blair handed it over to her. Mae gave him a brief smile as she blotted at her eyes. 

"It sounds to me as if he were a truly good person," the anthropologist observed quietly. 

"He was--a very good person." Mae's tone became almost hostile; she gave them both a hard glare. "I don't care if he was one of `those'; Emil was a good, decent human being!" 

Exchanging a quick glance with his partner, Sandburg queried delicately, "One of `those', Mrs. Winstead?' 

"I believe the proper term nowadays is `gay'." Mae sniffed and tossed her head. "Who the man slept with in the privacy of his own bedroom meant less than nothing to me and it shouldn't to anyone else, either! Emil Nunzio was a gentle, kind, hard-working man who never missed a day's work the entire eighteen years he'd worked at Donnelley's. Just because he preferred men doesn't mean he deserved to be murdered!" 

"We so totally agree with you," Sandburg answered quickly. "Don't we, Jim?" 

Thus appealed to, Ellison nodded. "I assure you, Mrs. Winstead," he said firmly, "the matter of Mr. Nunzio's sexual orientation makes absolutely no difference to us. All we care about is bringing his murderer to justice." 

For several long moments, Mae Winstead stared intently at the two of them. Then she nodded. "Thank you." 

"This...matter...wasn't in the police report," Jim stated tactfully. "You didn't mention it to anyone back then?" 

"N-No, I didn't." Flushing, Mae looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry, Detective, but one hears such rumors." Expelling a deep breath, she glanced back up helplessly. "I was so afraid the police would stop looking for the killer if they knew about Emil's private habits. So I never mentioned a word." 

"That's all right, Mrs. Winstead," soothed Ellison. "I can certainly understand why you would've felt that way." 

Suddenly, Mae paled and her eyes widened. "Oh, dear!" she gasped, raising a shaky hand to her mouth. "You don't suppose that's why the police never caught that man? Because they didn't know about Emil's personal preferences?" 

"I don't think anything of the sort," declared Jim, although that exact thought had already run through his head. *It's over and done with, no reason to dwell on what ifs and maybes. Now you know...run with it.* "Can you think of anything else you didn't mention at the time? Anything, no matter how insignificant it might appear?" 

"No, not really," Mae said slowly, brow creasing in thought. "Not right off hand, at any rate." 

"Did you happen to see any of his `friends'?" Sandburg asked gently. "Did he have a lot or.?" 

"He dated, but it wasn't what I would call excessive," answered the elderly woman. "Certainly not as many as my one grandson--a different woman every night, that boy!" Tsking over the wayward relation, Mae remarked, "I kept hoping Emil would find that one, special person like I had with my darling George. At the end there, I really had my hopes up; such a nice boy, that one seemed to be. Who knows what could have happened if they'd had enough time?" She gave a sigh of regret and shook her head. 

"So he had a boyfriend?" inquired Ellison. "Did Mr. Nunzio talk to you about him?" 

"Oh, my, yes." Mae gave a sad-sounding laugh. "Emil used to call me his `make-believe Mom'. His poor mother, the shock of Emil's death was just too much for her; she died less than two weeks after him. Anyway, Emil always said he could tell me things he would never dare tell her. I gathered she was an extremely religious woman, so he could never, well, you know." When both men nodded, she went on, "I know Emil really liked this young man. They went out two or three times a week to the movies or dinner." 

"Do you recall if Mr. Nunzio gave you a name for this man?" 

Frowning deeply, Mae said, "The only name I can remember is Jeff, I'm afraid. If I ever knew his last name, I've forgotten it." She looked over at the men apologetically. 

"That's all right, Mrs. Winstead." The cop hid a sigh. "Did you ever see this Jeff?" 

"Well, I only saw him a few times, but I remember he was a bit younger than Emil, had dark hair and was slender and he always dressed well, even when he was wearing blue jeans." 

"Do you recall how tall he was?" urged the detective. 

The elderly woman frowned again in concentration. "No, not really. Oh, wait!" Blue eyes brightening, Mae said, "I saw them come in together late one evening and Jeff's head was almost on a level's with Emil's; so he wasn't all that tall. Emil was only five foot ten, or so." 

Standing, Ellison held out his business card. "Thank you, Mrs. Winstead. You've been a great help." 

Taking the small card, Mae asked, "Do you suppose you'll ever find out who did that dreadful thing to Emil?" 

"I wish I could promise you that we will, ma'am, but I can't," Ellison answered honestly as she walked with them to the door. "But I can tell you this: I'm not going to give up, no matter how long it takes." 

She gave him a sharp look, then nodded her head. "You know, Detective Ellison; I believe you." 

As the men were leaving, Jim turned back. "I'm not trying to be rude, Mrs. Winstead." The cop's voice was soft, but firm. "But you did a very foolish thing a bit ago." 

"What was that, Detective?" she asked, puzzled. Blair, too, looked confused for a moment, then his face cleared and he nodded in agreement. 

"You opened this door to a couple of complete strangers without either first looking through the spyhole, or calling out to find out who it was. That wasn't very safe, ma'am," Jim reproved gently. "We could've been anyone trying to gain access to you and your apartment." 

To the two men's astonishment, the elderly widow just laughed. "It must be a male characteristic; my sons are forever yelling at me about the same thing. I know I should check first, boys, but there's a couple of problems with doing so." She held up a staying hand as Sandburg opened his mouth. "Firstly, the silly hole is too high for me, and I can't get the darn building superintendent to lower it. I've been asking for years and there always seems to be something else that takes priority. Secondly, my hearing isn't as good as it once was; I just can't seem to understand people when they talk through the door." 

"Excuse me, please," Jim said tersely. He turned away and strode down the wide hall. 

Sandburg watched him go with a small smile on his face. He glanced over to see the older woman watching his partner, eyes wide in surprise. 

Blair gave the woman a confiding smile. "You know where he's going, don't you?" 

She smiled back. "I take it he's not normally that abrupt, then?" 

"No, not really." Blair's grin widened as he said, "Jim's down in the basement, pounding on the superintendent's door and demanding that he get up here and lower that spyhole for you." 

Mae's mouth fell open. "You must be joking!" 

"Nope." Blair shook his head. "I know Jim Ellison; he doesn't like anybody being put to unnecessary risks. Plus, call him old-fashioned if you want, you just happen to be a nice, older lady." 

As he was speaking, Ellison reappeared at the top of the service stairs. Scuttling nervously behind him was a skinny, balding man in grease-stained overalls. 

"Oh, my goodness." Mae Winstead's jaw dropped again. 

"Umm, hi, Mrs. Winstead," squeaked the newcomer in a thin tenor. Casting a worried eye at the large detective hovering in the background, the man asked tentatively, "Is...is now a good time to re-do that spyhole for you? I mean, I don't wanna bug you if you're busy and all." 

"Now would be just fine, Mr. Slater," Mae said graciously, valiantly controlling her smile. "Thank you very much." 

"No problem, no problem at all," babbled Slater. "I just gotta, umm, just gotta go fetch my tools, ya know?" He gave brief, spastic grin. "Be right back, okay?" 

Watching him practically fly back toward the stairs, Blair bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. 

"Thank you, Detective," Mae said, blushing slightly. "That was very sweet of you." 

"No thanks necessary, Mrs. Winstead." As usual, Ellison seemed uneasy with praise. Shuffling his feet a little, he mumbled, "You've got my card; let me know if that idiot doesn't do the job right." 

"I will." The elderly woman smiled. "I'll also call if I think of anything else about Emil." 

"Yeah, you do that." Giving her a nod, Ellison headed for the stairs again. "Let's go, Chief." 

"See you, Mrs. Winstead," called Sandburg as he sprinted for the stairs. 

He clattered down the steps after his partner, who had gone ahead. Re-joining the cop at the first floor landing, the grad student waved at the toolladen superintendent heading back up to the fourth floor. "Wonder why, with all those heavy tools, he isn't using the elevator?" 

Looking up at Ellison, Blair had just opened his mouth when the cop snarled, "I don't want to hear it, Sandburg!" 

"Hear what, man?" teased the anthropologist, tossing the embarrassed cop a mischievous grin as they left the apartment building. "Hear that I know you're full of mush, especially for sweet, elderly ladies like Mae Winstead?" He shook his head and gave a fake sigh of dismay. "What would your Ranger trainers say if they heard about this? Tsk, tsk." 

"Zip it, small fry, and I mean it," threatened Ellison, unlocking the Expedition's driver's side door. "Or else." 

"Or else what?" Sandburg asked interestedly. 

Pausing in the act of getting in, Ellison said sourly, "Or else I don't unlock your door and you can just walk home from here." 

"Never happen, man." The anthropologist shook his head confidently. 

"Oh?" growled the detective, half in, half out, of the SUV. "I wouldn't push your luck if I were you, short stuff." 

If anything, Sandburg's grin just spread. 

Ellison glared at him. "Sure of yourself, aren't you?" 

"Yeah, I am." An infuriating grin on his face, Blair sashayed up to the passenger door of the Expedition. "I know you'd never leave someone to walk, for miles, through some not-so-nice neighborhoods, especially when, look..." He held out a flat palm. "It's starting to rain." Blair shook his head. "You wouldn't do that to someone you dislike, let alone to someone you love." The grin stretched into a dazzling smile. 

Mumbling under his breath, Ellison reluctantly reached across the SUV's passenger seat and unlocked the door. As the grad student slid into the vehicle, Ellison shut his own door with a slam. "Remind me again why I love you?" 

Sandburg laughed and turned up the wattage of his smile. "Do you want the complete list, or just the condensed one?" He laughed again at the poisonous glare thrown his way. "Face it, Jim; your cover is blown. You might as well admit it: Big Jim Ellison has a huge soft spot for little old ladies and short, hairy anthropologists." 

"Lucky for you, I do," grumbled Ellison. Coasting to a stop at a light, he changed the subject. "Pull out Taylor's file and check for his home address, will you, Chief? Since we have to drive through Bayside Heights to get to Pinewood, we might as well do some snooping there, first." 

"Sure thing, man." Reaching down into a small box that rested on the truck's floorboard beside his feet, Blair pulled out the required file. Squinting at the pages in the muted light, he read, "Uh, we need 3745 Morris Street, apartment number sixty-two." Replacing the file in the box, he asked, "So what do you think about what Mrs. Winstead said?" 

"I think it's a bit too early to go jumping to conclusions," said Ellison, turning left onto Pacific Beach Road. "But you were right about Nunzio, at least." 

"Just you wait, man," Sandburg said cockily, glancing out the window on his right as the rain started to fall in earnest. "Blair Sandburg is never wrong about people." At Ellison's snort of disbelief, he protested, "It's true! Just tell me one time I was wrong. You can't, can you?" 

"As someone--who shall remain nameless--just said: Do you want the complete list, or just the condensed one?" mocked Ellison. 

Sandburg stuck his tongue out at him. 

"Oh, that's real mature, Chief." 

"Just you wait, Jim," Blair said smugly. He returned his gaze out his window. "I shall be proven correct. Again." 

"Yeah, sure. Time will tell, Junior." 

An hour and fifteen minutes later found them once again heading back to the Expedition. Or rather, Ellison was stalking toward it; Sandburg was still doing the Ibutu victory dance back at the bottom of the sagging wooden staircase that led to a depressingly dilapidated apartment building. 

Holding one hand to his ear, the grad student yelled, "What's that I hear, Jim? An apology?" His self-satisfied grin threatened to split his face. "Get in the damn truck, Sandburg," shouted Ellison. "It's getting ready to rain again, and this isn't the place to be standing around, goofing off-- particularly when it's getting dark." Although it was only just approaching six o'clock, the lowering clouds had robbed the city of several hours of daylight. 

Glancing nervously around him when he heard a sudden clanging sound, Sandburg made a dash for the Expedition. Crawling in, he'd barely shut his door before Ellison was pulling away from the curb. 

"Grump all you like, man," crowed the younger man, not all fazed at the glowering scowl sent his way. "But I'm right, and you know it. All four of those men were gay." 

"Two of those men were gay," Ellison corrected snappishly. "That's not all of them. I refuse to jump to conclusions without solid evidence." 

"Keep basking in your illusions," Blair said serenely. "But I know I'm right." 

"What you are is wet," shot back Ellison. 

Confused by that non sequitur, Blair peered down at himself. "No, I'm not, Jim. I got in the truck before it started to rain again." 

Ellison made a sharp left turn and pulled into the parking area of a small gas station-cum-convenience store. Looking over at the bewildered grad student, he said, "I'm thirsty, and this is my truck. You may not be wet now, but soon." The cop glanced meaningfully out the window. 

"Oh, man." Sandburg groaned and grabbed the door handle. "You know, Jim; being a poor loser is not a positive character trait." 

Watching until the other man had entered the small building, Ellison's grin died as he reached for the box of files. Pulling one out, he flipped it open, scanning its contents. A frown drawing at his brows, he slid his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed. 

The detective had just closed his phone when he noticed his partner running toward the truck. By the time Sandburg reached it, Ellison had his door open for him. 

"Thanks, man," gasped Blair. "I think it's a monsoon out there." Handing the older man his bottle of water, he grabbed a handful of his long hair and twisted. He then opened his own bottle of water, starting to shiver in the cool air. 

Without saying a word, Ellison turned on the heat in the truck. As the first tendrils of blessed warmth wafted through the vents, the cop said quietly, "I don't like it, Chief; I don't like it at all." 

Sandburg blinked at him. "Like what, Jim?" 

"You were right." As the anthropologist just sat there and stared blankly at him, Ellison confessed, "About our victims, I mean. I just got off the phone with Lawrence Shum, one of Douglas Adler's uncles. He wasn't happy about telling me, but it seems good old Doug had a thing for men." 

"Oh." Instead of looking triumphant, Blair just looked thoughtful. "Did he say anything specific?" 

"Only that Doug described his last boyfriend as slender with dark hair and that he went by the name of Jeff." 

Sandburg choked on his water. "Oh, man!" Catching his breath, he looked anxiously at Ellison. "That's quite a coincidence, isn't it? Both Nunzio and Adler having known a dark-haired, slender guy with the name of Jeff? Could this guy be our killer?" 

"I'd like it better if we could've gotten more confirmation about Taylor's love life, beyond the simple fact that he was gay," Jim muttered, thinking furiously. 

Blair snorted and shook his head, not noticing the tiny drops of rain which went flying. "Man, we were lucky to get even that much from those people! That sort of environment does not make for close and friendly neighbors. I bet the only reason that one guy knew about it is because he probably tried to beat the shit out of Daniel for it." Sandburg shivered again, this time in remembrance of the hulking, scarred man they'd encountered back at Taylor's apartment building. 

"You're probably right, Chief, but that's rather moot at the moment." Jim sighed as he finished his water. "What is pertinent is that there's a serial killer focusing on gay men in this city. We have to stop him, before he kills some other poor guy." 

"I'm so down with that." Blair thought for a couple of minutes, then asked, "Shouldn't we attempt to find out for sure about Langstrom? I mean, like you said earlier, we probably shouldn't jump to conclusions--particularly about something as socially controversial as this." 

"Yeah, we should." Ellison glanced down at his watch and sighed again. "It's almost six pm, Chief; Langstrom's business will have closed by now. There might be an off-hour shift, but we really need to talk with the upper echelon. Let's tackle that one in the morning, all right?" 

"Whatever you say, man; you're the expert here." 

They had been riding along in companionable silence for several minutes before Sandburg asked, "Jim, do you think that's why he did it?" 

Ellison glanced over at him. "Is that why who did what, Chief?" 

"Do you think the killer targeted these guys just because they were gay?" clarified Sandburg. 

"It stands to reason, doesn't it?" Keeping his attention on the rain-slick road and rush hour traffic, Ellison continued, "I don't care for the idea any more than you do, but I think it's rather obvious why those men were murdered. Those four guys weren't just killed, Chief; they were tortured and mutilated, especially sexually. Whoever did this was making a point." 

"A point about what?" 

"Who knows? If we knew that, we'd be one step closer to stopping this bastard." 

More quiet moments passed, then Sandburg again broke his silence. "This is kind of weird, I know, but I'm glad." 

Ellison looked at him, frowning. "Glad about what?" 

"That it's us." Voice trailing off, Blair bit his lip for a moment, then went on, "I know this case is already turning into a headache for you, and I know it could explode in your face if the press ever gets wind of it, but I'm glad that you--that we--got assigned to solve it. It's only fair, you see. Right." He looked worriedly at the other man, desperately hoping his lover understood what he was trying to say. He relaxed when Ellison smiled at him. 

"You know, Chief; you're correct again. It is right that we be the ones to catch this maniac." 

<<<>>>

Blair cursed under his breath as an uniformed officer, in a hurry to leave the Major Crime bullpen, rushed past him and almost knocked the full backpack off his shoulder. "Shit, this is a police station; you'd think they'd have speed laws in here." 

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" came a familiar voice. 

Looking around, Blair smiled as he greeted the two detectives. "Hey, Rafe, Paul. How are you guys this fine Thursday morning?" 

"Can't complain," answered Rafe. 

Hanson just grinned and shrugged. Coming up to the grad student, he made a show of looking around him. "So where's your better half? Don't tell me Ellison stayed in bed and sent you in to work for him?" 

"Oh, yeah, sure," laughed Sandburg. "Nah, Jim's still down in the garage, talking with Sergeant Wu about the Mariners game. He sent me on ahead to see if there was anything new on his desk." 

"Still working on the Langstrom case?" queried Rafe. 

Blair looked at him, eyebrows raised. "How'd you know about that, man?" 

"Jim and I were discussing it yesterday in the elevator." Rafe shrugged. "I told him I was between cases." 

Before Blair could say anything, Rhonda called his name and thrust more papers at him. 

"The city building permit office faxed this over yesterday afternoon after you and Jim had left," she explained. "It's that list of warehouses you requested." 

"Warehouses?" Hanson asked. "Why are you looking up warehouses?" 

File box under one arm, Ellison suddenly appeared beside Sandburg. 

"A night out on me, Chief; I just won fifty bucks off Wu." He playfully tugged at Sandburg's ponytail. Then, spotting papers in the younger man's hands, asked, "What's that you've got?" He nodded a `hello' at his fellow detectives. 

"That list of warehouses from city records," responded Sandburg. He looked up with a grin. "See, I told you it wouldn't be in the hundreds. I think there's only about a dozen listed." 

"That's still about eleven more than I care for," retorted Ellison, reaching for the papers and running an assessing eye over the information. "Let's just lock this in the conference room with the files," he suggested. "We can go over it better after we've talked with Langstrom's executives." 

"I'm still between cases, Jim," Rafe stated eagerly. He nodded at the box of files. "I can start on the warehouses while you and Blair are out doing your thing." 

"Thanks, but no thanks." Ellison shook his head. "Warren would have my ass if I palmed this case off on anyone else." 

"Yeah, sorry, Rafe," added Sandburg. "We really appreciate the offer, man, but no can do." 

"All right." Rafe gave a small, tight smile. The two fashion-plate detectives headed for Hanson's desk. 

"I'm definitely going to have to have a talk with Simon about that boy," Ellison muttered in Sandburg's ear. Dropping the list of warehouses into the file box, he placed his free hand in the small of the grad student's back to start him moving. 

"What do you mean?" Blair looked up at him curiously as he automatically negotiated the crowd in the corridor. 

"If Rafe has enough spare time that he can keep offering to help us with this mess, he can obviously handle a heavier case load," declared Ellison as they reached their destination. He dug the conference room key out of his pocket; he'd forgotten to leave it with Rhonda when they'd left the previous afternoon. Unlocking the door, he ushered his partner in. 

"It's obvious, Jim, that he really respects and admires you," observed Sandburg as Ellison put the box of files on the table. The detective slid the piece of paper with Langstrom's list of executives into his pocket. "I just hope we didn't offend him by refusing his help, man. He didn't look any too happy." 

"He'll get over it," dismissed Ellison, re-locking the door behind him. "C'mon, Chief; let's get cracking. I want to catch Langstrom's upper echelon before they've had time to scatter to their golf courses or five-martini lunches." 

"But it's only eight-thirty in the morning!" Blair pointed out. 

"I know. That's why we have to move it." 

The younger man gave him an aggravated glare, but hurried to catch up, regardless. 

Watchful, wary eyes stared after them. 

<<<>>>

It was two discouraged men who desultorily climbed into the Expedition around noon. 

"I can't believe that stonewall, man," Sandburg said, disappointed. "To listen to those guys, Terence Langstrom was a virile, All-American male who would never have dreamed of looking at another man in anything less than a Christian manner. Can you believe that one guy's lame response when you asked why Langstrom didn't have a girlfriend?" 

"'Terence would not have dated any woman until he felt he wished to marry her. He was old-fashioned in that respect'." Ellison beautifully imitated the precise, faux British upper-class accent affected by Langstrom Pharmaceuticals' Chief Financial Officer. The detective shook his head disgustedly. "What a crock of bullshit. He wouldn't date a woman until he felt enough to marry her; but how the hell could he learn to love her unless he dated her first?!" 

"As you said, man--pure bullshit." Sandburg slumped back against the seat. "We had it too easy with the first three," he announced abruptly, looking over at his partner. "We should've expected something like this." 

"Yeah, we should've," agreed Ellison. "Langstrom was a successful businessman, founder of an up and coming company with over a thousand employees. Of course, his management staff is going to whitewash any hint of a scandal. The employees, themselves, probably never knew him well enough to have an idea one way or another." 

"If they even knew what he looked like," Sandburg said dejectedly. "So where do we go from here, man?" 

"We go to lunch," the cop said decisively. "It's almost twelve, and I'm starved." 

"So what else is new?" 

Ellison started up the engine and backed out of the parking slot. "Just for being that way, I get to chose where we eat." 

"Great, a perfect end to a perfect morning; constipated arteries on top of constipated witnesses." 

Jim managed to stop the laugh from escaping, but his lips did slide upward. 

Halfway through his double WonderBurger with all the fixings, the detective suddenly stopped chewing and froze. 

"What is it? You hear something?" Sandburg mumbled thickly around a large bite of his own burger. Healthful protests aside, Ellison had noticed that the anthropologist had managed to inhale all of his own french fries and, subsequently, had to be forcibly restrained from making sneak attacks on Ellison's. 

Ellison made a manful attempt to swallow his partially-chewed mouthful. When he was finally able to speak, he said, "I just thought of something. Who's the one person who would know who Langstrom saw socially, yet wouldn't be constrained by the need to protect the company?" 

After frowning at him for a few minutes, Sandburg shook his head. "Okay, I give up. Who?" 

"The security guard at his front gate," the cop declared smugly. 

Jaw dropping, the younger man gave his partner a look of stunned admiration. "That's an excellent idea, Jim!" he said sincerely. Then his eyes darkened. "That is," he warned, "if this guy will even talk to us. Do we know where he is?" 

"He's still at the Langstrom house until the estate is settled. And don't worry about it, he'll talk to us," Jim finished confidently, resuming his meal. 

Staring at him warily, Sandburg said, "I can tell I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but why are you so positive this rent-a-cop will talk to us?" 

"Chief, I'm surprised and shocked." Jim shook his head in exaggerated disbelief. "You've read the file. I can't believe you missed this." 

"Missed what?" Blair's skepticism had segued into open suspicion. 

"This guy is not your average rent-a-cop. The security guard's name is Carlos Salazaar." 

"So?" There was a wealth of pure impatience in the word. 

"So Carlos Salazaar is the father of Detective Sergeant Manuel Salazaar, who happens to work Narcotics out of Central." 

Sandburg debated on whether to stick his tongue out at the complacent man, but decided against it as they were in a public place. 

Snickering gleefully under his breath, Ellison tranquilly continued devouring his lunch. 

<<<>>>

Forty-five minutes after leaving WonderBurger, the Expedition cruised slowly along a discreet brick drive, coming to a rest next to a small stone building flanking a pair of large, ornate wrought-iron gates. A tall, stout man, dressed in a gray uniform shirt and trousers came out of the building as the truck came to a halt. Pausing briefly to place his black uniform cap onto his bald head, he met the visitors as they were exiting the SUV. 

"Can I help you?" The Hispanic accent was very pronounced. 

"Carlos Salazaar?" questioned Ellison, retrieving his shield from his jacket pocket. 

"Yes." The security guard looked closely at the badge. "More police, eh? So what happened to that other guy...Morrell, I think his name was." 

"At the request of our superiors, I've been assigned as lead investigator on Mr. Langstrom's case," explained Ellison. "I'm Jim Ellison of Major Crime, and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg." 

"Ellison?" The older man's sharp brown eyes looked the cop over. "I've heard of you; according to my son, you're a whiz at solving the hard ones." 

"Manny exaggerates," Ellison said uncomfortably. "I'm no different than any other hard-working cop." 

"We'll see," Salazaar said cryptically. "So, what can I tell you that wasn't in my report?" 

Some deep instinct made Ellison ask flatly, "Was Terence Langstrom gay?" 

For several tense minutes, a charged silence crackled between the two men then, surprisingly, Salazaar let out a bark of genuine laughter. "Manny was right about you." He took off his cap and ran a hand over his polished skull. "This murder just might get solved, after all. None of the other cops caught that." 

"Well, you can thank my partner for the catch," the cop admitted. "He's the one who spotted it." 

Salazaar transferred his gaze over to Sandburg. "You're that kid from Rainier, aren't you?" he mused thoughtfully. "Manny's told me all about you." 

Sandburg cast a quick glance at Ellison. "Thanks. I think." 

Salazaar let out another deep laugh. "Don't worry about it, kid. Manny says you work harder than half the cops in the damn building, and you don't even get paid!" 

Blair grinned at him. "It's a good thing, then, that I don't need much!" 

Snorting, Carlos shook his head at him. Turning back to Ellison, he shrugged and said, "Yeah, none of those stuffed-shirts down at the company will admit it, but Langstrom was into guys in a big way. Oh, he only went for a certain type, but he more than made up for lack of variety with an abundance of numbers." 

"Real playboy, I take it?" commented Ellison. 

"You said it, man." The guard shook his head again. "He'd pick them up from everywhere, but none of them ever lasted more than a couple of weeks. Langstrom had a really low boredom threshold." 

"Who was his latest?" Ellison unconsciously held his breath. 

"Some blond caddie from his golf club." Not noticing the other two men's intense disappointment, Salazaar continued, "But I wouldn't exactly call him Langstrom's latest--that kid hadn't even made it up to the house yet. From what I could gather, Langstrom had only just issued the `invitation'." 

"Who was the last to make it up to the house?" 

Curiously, Salazaar looked away, pursing his lips. 

Exchanging a perplexed look with Sandburg, Ellison prompted, "Mr. Salazaar?" 

The security guard seemed to come to an internal decision. Cocking his head, he looked at Ellison and asked, "Have you talked to the executives down at the company yet?" 

Taken aback, yet willing to play along for the present, Ellison replied, "Yeah. We didn't get much from them, other than loud protests of macho masculinity." 

Giving another snort, Salazaar said, "Then I guess they didn't tell you that the company had just recently suffered a bad case of industrial espionage? The new cholesterol-lowering drug that was supposed to have been their biggest moneymaker suddenly ended up coming from a rival firm. Langstrom had smoke coming out of his ears." 

Ellison grimaced. "No, they didn't mention that." 

"I'm not surprised. Langstrom wanted the culprit caught, but he refused to press charges for fear of bad publicity. He just fired the guy who did it, and blackballed him from ever working in pharmaceuticals again." 

"Mr. Salazaar, why are you telling us this?" queried Sandburg. "Was the fired employee Mr. Langstrom's last lover?" 

Again, Salazaar hesitated, then he shrugged elaborately. "My Manny vouches for both of you boys." He seemed to be trying to convince himself of something. 

"Whatever you have to tell us, sir; I promise you the information will be handled with the utmost discretion," reassured the detective. 

"Well, Mr. Langstrom's last `friend'...he was one of the cops who investigated the espionage at the company." 

Several minutes went by before either Ellison or Sandburg was able to shake off their dismayed shock from that stunning announcement. 

"Mr. Salazaar, are you telling us that Mr. Langstrom became intimately involved with a police officer who worked his case?" Ellison's jaw muscle was twitching. 

"Yeah. They were going at it hot and heavy for three weeks or so." The security guard gave up the information somewhat reluctantly. "The cop came over Saturday evening in a cab with a small suitcase, but Mr. Langstrom wasn't here. He didn't seem too happy about that. When he showed up again late Sunday afternoon, the boss said it was all right to let him in. Poor bastard." Salazaar shook his head. "I know Langstrom only let him in so he could throw him out, if you catch my meaning." 

"What time did this man-what was his name, by the way-leave?" inquired Ellison. His jaw muscles remained tight with tension. 

"The only name I ever got was Jeff. Whether that was his real name or not, who knows?" Salazaar gave another shrug. "He hadn't left by the time I got off-shift around eight, Sunday evening. But that wasn't too unusual; Mr. Langstrom's `quickies' could last for hours." 

"Is Jeff sort of medium tall, slender, with dark hair? Always dresses nice?" queried Sandburg, praying for a negative answer. His hopes were soon dashed. 

"Yeah," responded Carlos. He gave the anthropologist a curious look. "Why would you want to know that?" 

Sandburg gave a strained laugh. "Just seeing if I could place the guy." 

Salazaar gave him an intent look, but said nothing. 

Fighting back an abrupt feeling of betrayal, Ellison asked, "Could we speak with the man who took over after you left? Maybe he could tell us what time Jeff left--let us get a timeline on our killer." 

"Not going to happen. Langstrom didn't use a night guard; he always relied on his state-of-the-art security system for the overnight hours. It goes on when I leave at eight in the evening, and I turn it off when I come on shift at eight in the morning." 

"Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Salazaar," Ellison said, giving a brief smile. "Let me assure you again that everything you told us will be dealt with in the most confidential of manner." 

"Well, I wouldn't want to make trouble for a cop just because of what he does in his off-time, you know?" stated the security guard. 

"You haven't. Good day." 

After giving Salazaar a small nod, Ellison turned and strode back to the Expedition. Sandburg had to almost run to keep up with him. 

Braking for a red light some time later, Ellison was abruptly unable to stand the tense silence any further. 

"What, Sandburg, no platitudes, no urging for me to take deep breaths, relax my stress levels?" he questioned bitterly, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. 

"Look, man, just because I'm not a cop, it doesn't mean I don't totally get what you're feeling right now. So just lay off the `he can't possibly understand me' bullshit, all right?" 

Ellison muttered a curse under his breath. More than the words, the anthropologist's terse tones told the cop that Sandburg was just as distressed, if not more so, than he was by the unexpected blow. 

"I don't think I could relax my stress levels right now if I took an entire bottle of Prozac," confessed the big detective. 

Hearing the unspoken apology, Sandburg took a deep breath and tried to rein in his own mounting anxieties. Turning toward his partner as far as his seat belt would allow, he asked, "Jesus, Jim; what the hell do we do now?" 

"We go back to the PD and find out who handled the espionage case for Langstrom's company. Even if there was no prosecution, there would have to be a report filed to account for the officers' time." 

"After that?" 

"After that...I have no idea at the moment. I guess we'll just have to wing it, Chief." 

Several more quiet minutes passed, although the air in the SUV was not as tense as before. 

"You know, Jim," Blair mused. "We could be jumping at shadows here." 

Ellison flicked a quick glance at him. "What do you mean?" 

"Just because all four of our vics--well, three of them for sure." Sandburg interrupted Ellison's correction. "Just because Adler, Nunzio and Langstrom all knew and dated a man named Jeff, who's physical description sounds similar, it doesn't necessarily follow that it was the same man." 

"Pretty big coincidence there, don't you think?" 

"Yeah, I agree; still it might only be a cosmic joke kind of thing. But, okay, let's say it is the same man; that doesn't mean this Jeff is the one who killed them. It only means that he knew them all. Since Jeff seems to be a gay cop, I can certainly understand why he would want to keep that aspect of his life a secret." 

"So can I." Ellison sighed. "I'm not jumping to conclusions here, Chief. I just don't like the idea of a cop being involved in this case in this sort of manner. You know for yourself that it's completely against the PD rules for an officer to get intimately involved with anyone included in one of his investigations. It looks bad, and can lead to trouble prosecuting the case if it goes to court." 

"I hear you." 

That was the end of their conversation. The rest of the trip back to Central was accomplished in a contemplative silence. The quiet lasted all the way through the elevator ride and through the corridor to the conference room. Again unlocking the door, Ellison stood aside and let Sandburg precede him. Once inside, the grad student stopped and looked up at his partner. 

"Well?" questioned Sandburg. 

Sighing again, Ellison shut the door behind them. "Now, we get on the police database and find out which cops were assigned to the espionage complaint at Langstrom Pharmaceuticals." 

"Okay." Seating himself at the computer, Sandburg got on the necessary site and started his search. 

Ellison took up pacing alongside the table. Brain going in tight circles over this unexpected development, it was several moments before the Sentinel detected his Guide's rocketing heart rate. 

"What is it, Chief?" he asked, coming to a halt. 

"You're not going to like this, man," muttered the anthropologist, biting savagely at his lower lip. "Hell, I don't like it." 

Anxiously, Ellison came up behind him and looked at the computer monitor. He breathed a short, fierce expletive at one of the names listed on the police report. 

"Yeah," agreed Sandburg. Running a nervous hand through his hair, he loosened a few curls from their place in the ponytail. "He knew we were working this case, man, why didn't he mention that he knew Terence Langstrom?" 

"I have no idea, Chief; but I intend to find out," growled Jim, continuing to glare at the tidy `David J. Rafe' placed below the scrawl of `Henry A. Brown' at the bottom of the police report. 

"Jim, his middle initial is `J'." The younger man's voice shook slightly. 

"I saw that," the cop bit out. 

Spinning away, the agitated detective paced rapidly back and forth the length of the room. Sandburg just watched him, azure eyes wide and uncertain. Five tense minutes later, Ellison came to a stop beside him again. 

"Do me a favor, Chief?" he asked abruptly. "Run a check under each of our three other victims, see if they ever filed a police report." 

Sandburg's eyes widened further, but he obediently started typing. "Douglas Adler," he mumbled, hitting the search key. Breath catching, he stuttered, "Oh...oh shit." 

"Yeah." Looking over his partner's shoulder, Ellison's voice was tight with anger. "Now the other two, Chief." 

Ten minutes later, Sandburg had abandoned the computer and had joined his lover in pacing. 

"Shit, Jim, what are we going to do?" 

"Hell, if I know, Chief." Stopping in his tracks, Ellison ran a hand over his face. "Okay, let's go over what we have: All of our victims were gay; three of them had been reported seeing a man they called Jeff. Each time, the physical description of this man was medium height, slender, dark-haired and well dressed. Prior to their social encounter with Jeff, each of our victims had filed a criminal complaint with the Cascade PD." 

"Douglas Adler, December 23, 1992, reported his car stolen from a downtown parking garage. The initial report was filed by Patrol Officers Sean Casey and David Rafe," Sandburg recited. "Adler was then discovered murdered on January 22, 1993." Blair dropped down into a chair and gazed worriedly at his partner as he continued, "Daniel Taylor filed a complaint September 29, 1993 after being mugged upon leaving a known gay bar on Pepper Street. That complaint was also handled by Officers Casey and Rafe. Taylor was found dead on October 11, 1993. On February 27, 1996, Emil Nunzio reported someone had broken into his apartment while he was out for the evening. Robbery Detective David Rafe, in his first outing as a detective, investigated. The case wasn't solved before Nunzio died March 25, 1996. Then, Terence Langstrom had a nasty case of industrial espionage he wanted stopped; he filed a complaint on April 13, 1997. Rafe, having transferred to Major Crime in September 1996, was given the job. A month later, Langstrom was found dead in some bushes outside his property." 

"This is not good," muttered Ellison. "Rafe knew each of the victims professionally; we can prove that. He knew we were working the Langstrom murder, yet he didn't tell us that he'd just finished another investigation involving the man." 

"You're right, this isn't good at all." Sandburg was staring down at the carpet beneath his feet. Suddenly, he looked up and his tone sharpened. "On that first day, Tuesday morning, when I stopped off at Forensics like you asked, Serena told me that Rafe just happened to be present while she was looking over the evidence from where Langstrom's body was found. He casually `mentioned' to her how little evidence was available." 

"Yeah, and he's been awfully insistent on helping out on this case." 

Sandburg worried at his lip for a bit before asking, "Do we tell Simon?" 

Ellison stood there, thinking, for some minutes. "Yeah, Chief; I think we should. What we have so far is only circumstantial, true; but, unfortunately, it's pretty damning circumstantial." 

He reached for the phone at the end of the conference table. Punching in a number, Ellison waited as the phone rang at the other end. 

"Simon, we have to talk," the cop said sharply as soon as the phone was picked up. His voice immediately eased. "Oh, hey, Rhonda, sorry. Yeah, I need to talk with Simon. Oh, when did that happen? Is Daryl all right? No, no message. I'll get with him in the morning. Thanks." He hung up the phone with a curse. 

"What was that about? Did something happen to Daryl?" Sandburg questioned anxiously. 

"You know how Daryl went with his mother to visit her parents in Salem?" At the younger man's nod, Ellison went on, "Well, Simon got a phone call around two this afternoon that Joan's car had run off the road just north of there. Thank goodness, neither one was hurt, but the car was damaged pretty badly. Because he needs to be at school on Monday, Simon went to pick up Daryl. Joan's going to hang around Salem until her car gets repaired." Ellison ran his hand over his face again. "The upshot is, Simon won't be back in Cascade until tomorrow morning. If I know him, he'll probably just shower, change and come straight in to the office." 

The grad student chewed his lip a little more, then said, "You know, Jim, I've been thinking. Maybe there's a way to-I don't know-cast a little doubt that Rafe is involved?" 

"I'm all for that, Chief," Ellison said fervently. "How do you plan on doing it?" 

"Well--and I know this is slim at best--but those guys were seeing a guy named Jeff. I know, I know." Blair held up a hand to stop his partner's protests. "Gay guys don't always give out their real names. But let's assume this guy did. Just because Rafe's middle initial is `J', it doesn't mean he's Jeff. Maybe the `J' stands for John or Joseph or something. Hell, maybe his middle name is his mother's maiden name!" 

"It won't actually prove a thing," Jim decided, "but it can't hurt, either. How are we going to find out his middle name? Go out to the bullpen and ask him?" 

Blair gave him a dirty look. "Don't be so ridiculous. We look at his personnel record, of course." He headed back to the computer. Jim trailed after him. "I might be a little naive here, Chief, but I thought after that fiasco with the Golden manufacturers, all personnel records were transferred to a password-protected file." 

"They were. The password is 05198307," Blair informed him absently as he searched for the proper file. "It's the day Vera lost her virginity." 

"Do I even want to know how you know that?" As Sandburg glanced up at him, Ellison shook his head. "No, I don't think I do. Just let me retain my ignorant illusions, Chief; I don't want to know my civilian partner can hack into secured CPD files. I for sure don't want to know how my lover came by the password." He went back to his pacing. 

In spite of the circumstances, Blair gave a quick grin at that. Moments later, he exclaimed, "I have it!" 

"Just give me the high points." 

"Well, the man's middle name is Jeffrey, so my theory goes down the drain," Blair said regretfully. 

"Not only does your theory go down the drain, the information unfortunately ties Rafe even closer to those damn killings. I'm not being morbidly curious here, but we should probably read the whole damn thing. We need to print it out." 

"How are we going to do that, man? The printer is out in the bullpen!" 

"I'm going to go stand by the printer, that's how. Give me five minutes, then hit print." 

Closely watching the second hand of the clock on the wall, Sandburg hit the print icon precisely at the five minute mark. Then, he held his breath until the familiar tall form reappeared in the conference room doorway. 

"Any problems?" he asked worriedly. 

"If you mean, was Rafe anywhere about, looking suspicious, no." Ellison sighed and dropped some papers on the table. "I really don't like this, Blair. I don't like being suspicious of a fellow cop, particularly someone I considered a friend and have had over to my home on various occasions." 

"I know, Jim." Sandburg looked at him sympathetically. "I don't like it, either. I mean, this is Rafe we're talking about, you know?" 

"Yeah, I know." The big detective sighed again and pointed at the papers. "Why don't you just read through those and give me the highlights, huh? I'm feeling dirty enough about this as it is." 

"Do you think I'm not?" retorted Sandburg. He went over to the table and, picking up the papers, started scanning. "Okay, he was born David Jeffrey Rafe, February 17, 1963 in Washington, DC. Parents are Samuel Peter Rafe and Susan Ellen Burnett Rafe, according to this, they're both still alive. No siblings listed. He grew up in the DC area, graduated from high school in May, 1981\. First listed job was as bartender at John Patrick's Sports Bar and Grill in Georgetown. Started taking classes at Metro Community College in September, 1982 but didn't complete the program. He left DC in April, 1983 and moved to San Francisco. There, he entered the police academy in June, 1983\. He worked as a patrol officer in San Francisco until July, 1988 when he moved to Portland. He was a patrol officer there until he moved to Spokane in February, 1991. He also worked as a patrol officer in Spokane. He then moved to Cascade in September, 1992, was hired as a patrol officer on September 21, 1992\. The rest we basically know." 

"Tramp cop," muttered Ellison, shaking his head. 

"What did you say, Jim?" 

The Sentinel stopped pacing and looked at his Guide. "I said, he's a tramp cop." Forestalling the inevitable question, he explained, "A tramp cop is one who goes from job to job, never staying very long in any one department or city. They're generally only in the job for the power and prestige they get from being a cop." 

"I never would've thought that about Rafe!" protested Blair. 

"There's a lot of things I would never have thought about Rafe," Ellison remarked grimly. "Looks like we both might have to do a little mental readjusting." 

"Yeah." Sandburg looked disheartened. 

Ellison was battling with his own sense of disbelief and betrayal. "Let's pack it up, Chief," he said suddenly. "Gather everything into the box, and let's take it home with us. I don't want to take the chance of anyone else accidentally getting a look at this stuff." 

"Okay, Jim." Sandburg stood and started putting the files in the box. Then, he abruptly turned and went back over to the computer. Puzzled, Ellison watched as the younger man typed steadily for several minutes before shutting down the machine. 

"What was that all about?" he questioned curiously. 

"Probably nothing." Sandburg gave a dismissive shrug. "Maybe just my wild imagination. Let's go, man." 

Ellison frowned at him for several minutes, then picked up the loaded box and ushered the shorter man out of the room. Ten minutes later, after stopping by Rhonda's desk to drop off the key, they were in the police garage. They walked silently to the truck; sliding in, they pointed the vehicle in the direction of the loft. 

It was a quiet ride; both men were mentally going over and over their suspicions. Neither one wanted to believe a respected police officer-a friend, at that-could be responsible for such atrocities. Yet their logical minds kept going back to the evidence, circumstantial though it might be. Pre-occupied with his whirling thoughts, Ellison paid minimal attention to his driving. Luckily for them, perhaps the rest of Cascade sensed this, for Sentinel and Guide arrived home without incident. 

Pulling into his usual parking slot, Ellison turned off the SUV and got out. Taking the box of files and papers from Blair, he headed for the door to their building. A melancholy Sandburg stayed close beside him; subconsciously seeking comfort, his left arm came to rest around Ellison's waist. Also needing solace, the Sentinel instinctively leaned into him, letting their hips bump together as they walked. 

In a waiting car down the block, vigilant eyes narrowed in suspicion and anger. 

<<<>>>

Neither one got much rest that night; consequently, it was two somber, sleep-deprived men who got off the elevator that Friday morning. 

"Here, Chief, you take this." Ellison unceremoniously unloaded the small box onto the other man. "Let me be the one to get the key from Rhonda." 

"I know, I know," muttered Sandburg, awkwardly shifting his armful so that he wouldn't drop the backpack he'd been carrying. "You're afraid that if I go into the bullpen, and Rafe is in there, I'm going to give it all away." 

Ellison just smiled at him and patted him gently on the cheek. 

Grumbling under his breath, Sandburg continued down the hall to the conference room. Shaking his head after him, the cop turned and went through the double doors into the Major Crime bullpen. 

"Hey, Rhonda," he greeted. "Is Captain Banks in yet?" 

"Good morning, Jim." The administrative assistant automatically held out the room key. "I gave him your message when he came through this morning. But the captain is in meetings with Chief Warren all day--budget time, you know. He said he'd get back to you as soon as he could." 

Ellison thought for a second. "I really do need to speak with him, Rhonda. If he calls in, will you tell him it's urgent? 

"Sure thing." As the detective started to leave, she called after him, "Oh, and Captain Taggart was looking for you." 

"Thanks." 

Rounding the corner of the hallway, the cop discovered Taggart deep in conversation with Sandburg. 

"So the new exhibit is all set?" Taggart was asking as Jim walked up to the two men. 

"Almost; just a few things left to do," Sandburg told him. While Ellison was unlocking the door, the grad student said, "I've got to head over to Rainier after lunch, finish up with that and make sure everything's ready for Finals next week." 

"Shirley's been nagging me that we need more culture," Joel said, referring to his wife. "Maybe we'll stop by the museum and take in the exhibit." 

"You'll like it. I hope," Sandburg replied, dropping his box burden onto the table. 

"Rhonda said you wanted to see me, Joel?" queried Ellison. 

"Yeah. I wanted to tell you the Whittier case is solved." Taggart's round face held a wide smirk. 

"Damn, I would've sworn that case was fated for cold storage!" exclaimed Ellison. 

Sandburg swiftly added his own congratulations. "That's fantastic, Joel!" 

His own worries forgotten for the moment, Ellison was deeply curious as to how Taggart had accomplished this feat in less than three days. When he'd handed the Benjamin Whittier over to the Bomb Squad captain, Jim had been all but certain the case was at a dead end. "I was getting nowhere on that damn thing. So who killed Whittier?" 

Taggart's grin widened. "Well...not to insult your skills or anything, but you just lacked the certain necessary something to solve it." 

"What was that?" Sandburg demanded before Ellison could open his mouth. 

"Unfortunately, Jim's skin color is too pale." Smile spreading further at the poleaxed look on both faces, Joel let out a laugh. "It really was that simple, guys. I went back to the factory yesterday afternoon to talk with some workers I'd missed the other day, and Norton Trent, the tool-shop foreman--he's Caucasian--took one look at me and went off the rails. To cut out all the NeoNazi rhetoric, it seems Whittier had been tapped for a promotion that Trent was convinced belonged to him. When he found out about it, Trent believed Whittier got the job because of his skin color and he killed him for it. Then, here I come, another African-American male in a position of authority, and he just loses it. Come to find out, Trent's racist leanings were common knowledge, but since most of the workers there are members of various minorities, they've all learned to keep their mouths shut about it, especially to another white man." 

"For crying out loud." Sandburg shook his head in disgust as Ellison continued to stare, open-mouthed, at Taggart. "I just can't believe the ignorance of some people. That must've been very uncomfortable for you, Joel." 

"It wasn't pleasant, but he didn't say anything I hadn't heard before." Taggart shrugged. "As you said, some people are just ignorant. But I'll put up with it as long as it lets me land a case Ellison couldn't solve!" The big captain gave another grin. 

"That's it, Joel; rub it in." But Ellison was smiling. 

Taggart laughed again and turned to leave. "I'll let you guys get on with your day. I just wanted to let you know about Trent, Jim." 

"Thanks, I appreciate it." 

Closing the door after him, Ellison shook his head over the news. It didn't happen often, but sometimes a case would suddenly fall into place just that easily. His ruminations were interrupted by an abrupt surge in Sandburg's pulse. 

"Hell...I got a hit!" 

"I thought that was a good thing." Ellison walked over to where his partner sat at the computer. The younger man had a despairing look on his face and he was shaking his head defeatedly. 

"Not this time," returned the anthropologist. Looking up, he said sadly, "This hit is in response to that request I sent out yesterday before we went home." 

"What request was that?" 

Sandburg sighed and looked down. Waving dejectedly at the monitor, he said, "I asked the San Francisco, Portland and Spokane PDs if they'd had any unsolved torture murders of gay men during the time Rafe lived in those cities." 

Ellison's mood took a sharp, downward turn. "And you got back a positive hit? From which city?" 

"All three." 

"Fuck!" A few seconds later, having gotten himself back under control, Ellison said levelly, "You'd better give me all the bad news, Chief." 

Taking a deep breath, Sandburg returned his attention to the monitor. Scrolling down the screen, he read, " San Francisco reports four unsolved murders between May, 1983 and April, 1988. Portland had two, between October, 1988 and January, 1991; while Spokane had only one, August 17, 1991." He took another deep breath and once again looked at his partner. "This is not good news, Jim; this is definitely not good news here. I know it doesn't prove anything, but." 

"I know, Chief, I know." Ellison threw up his hands and commenced his new habit of pacing up and down the conference room. "Rhonda said she'd told Simon I needed to talk to him, but he's in budget meetings all day. I asked her to tell him it was urgent if he called in. Hell, we can't even go to Warren about this; he's at the same, damn meeting!" 

"Maybe we should interrupt the meeting," Blair suggested. "I mean, I know those budget things are important and all, but this." 

"If we had definitive, positive proof, I'd agree with you," the cop stated. "But, unfortunately, all we have is conjecture and coincidence." 

"So what do we do in the meanwhile?" The grad student looked at him expectantly. 

"We go back over those files with a fine-toothed comb," decided Ellison. "There must be something in them that ties Rafe to those men." 

"If you say so, man." Sandburg looked uncertain, but took a seat at the table. Grabbing the Adler file out of the box, he flipped it open. Pulling up a chair beside him, Ellison followed suit, taking up the Nunzio file. 

For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the rustle of turning papers. Then, taking a deep, bracing breath, Blair put aside the file he was perusing and looked over at Ellison. 

"Jim, I...I want to see the crime scene photos. No, that's not quite true--I _have_ to see them." 

Spine tightening, Ellison put down his file. "Have to see them, Chief?" He deliberately kept his voice low and level. "I thought we'd agreed that you would only see them if it turned out necessary to solve the case. I hardly think we're at that point." 

"I know, man; but..." Blair glanced down, then back up, locking gazes with the cop. "I'm aware of our agreement, Jim. But I need to see them to...to see for myself what a man I considered a good cop and a good friend is capable of doing. Don't you see, Jim?" Blair argued fiercely. "I need to _understand_." 

Breaking eye contact, the detective looked away. Mentally holding his breath, Blair waited quietly while his partner debated with himself. He could fully comprehend how difficult the decision would be for Ellison. Jim was, because of his Sentinel heritage and professional training, an extremely protective man, particularly toward his Guide/partner. When their relationship had ripened to include love, it had only put added stress on Ellison to protect the younger man; and he took that self-imposed duty very seriously. Ordering himself to remain silent--to not demand or plead--the grad student waited with forced patience. Finally, the cop looked back; the cornflower blue eyes were resigned. 

"All right, Chief," he accepted softly. Reaching into the box that held the files, he pulled out the four envelopes which contained the photos. "Do you...do you want me to leave?" 

"Hell, no!" 

A corner of his mouth lifting at the decided negative, Ellison slid the envelopes over. 

Now that he had them, Sandburg couldn't seem to bring himself to open the packets. Several long minutes later, his hands darted out and, before his courage could fail him, swiftly opened the Adler packet. 

Worriedly, Ellison watched as his partner blanched sheet-white almost immediately. "Chief, maybe..." he began tentatively. 

"No." Sandburg refused flatly. His gaze remained on the photographs. 

Jaw muscle twitching madly, the cop waited tensely while Sandburg methodically looked over each picture from each file. Five minutes later, the anthropologist finished. Still not looking at his anxious lover, he stood up and walked steadily over to the door. 

Ellison shot to his feet. 

Holding up a trembling hand, Sandburg said quietly, "No, Jim." His voice was strangely calm. "There's no reason for you to have to deal with this. I asked to see the photos; it's up to me to deal with the consequences of my decision." Finally glancing back at the concerned Sentinel, he gave a wavering smile. "I will be back." He opened the door and, stopping briefly, said sincerely, "Thanks, Jim." 

Heart sick, Ellison listened as his lover's footsteps grew faster and faster as they retreated down the corridor. By the time he'd reached the door of the men's bathroom, Sandburg was almost running. 

<<<>>

Shortly after twelve-thirty that afternoon, the Expedition drew up outside Hargrove Hall at Rainier. 

"You sure you don't want some lunch, Chief?" Jim checked anxiously. "I could run over to Kesselman's Deli and..." 

"I'm sure, Jim, but thanks anyway." Sandburg gave a wan smile. "No appetite, you know." 

"Yeah, I know." Sighing, Jim looked out his window. "I know it's your choice, but I'm sorry you have to be involved in something like this." 

"Don't be. I'm just sorry I couldn't be of more help today. I can't put my finger on it, but I've got a feeling about those warehouses and Rafe. Maybe when I get finished here, I can..." 

"You can catch a ride home with your friend Nancy as you'd planned," Ellison said sternly. "You're wearing yourself out, Chief; burning the candle at both ends again. You know how I feel about that." 

"Oh, god, do I know!" Blair let out a short laugh and gave his lover an affectionate look. "Anyone ever tell you that you worry way too much?" 

"Can't help it, Chief." Ellison shrugged and grinned. "It's just instinctual with you." 

Scowling at him playfully, Blair leaned over for a quick kiss. Jim, however, had other ideas and the caress turned into a long, sultry exploration of each other's mouths. Time lost all meaning for them. 

Parked in the far corner of the student parking lot, the watching man cursed fluidly and lividly under his breath. Fingers and knuckles were white where they clutched a pair of binoculars; raging eyes took in the sensuous performance. Abruptly, the man tossed the binoculars aside and furiously gunned his car out of the lot, tires smoking. 

Pulling back from the kiss to catch his breath, Jim was distracted from what he'd been going to say by the acrid smell and sharp squeal of burning tires. 

"Jesus, I hope that idiot left enough rubber on his tires to drive home," he griped sourly. 

Blair laughed at him again. "See? You're just an old worry-wort." Climbing out of the SUV, he shut the door smartly. He tossed a smile at Ellison before turning and striding up the walk toward Hargrove Hall. 

Ellison watched him until he'd entered the building. Then, shifting the Expedition into gear, he headed back toward the police station. 

<<<>>>

Giving a surreptitious glance around as he entered the bullpen, Ellison came up to Rhonda's desk. Barely concealing his impatience, he waited while she finished her phone call. The moment she'd hung up the receiver, he asked, "Has Captain Banks called in yet?" 

"Yes, he has," she replied. "I gave him your message, Jim. He said he'd get back to you as soon as possible." 

Stifling an irritated snarl, Ellison nodded and started to turn away. Then, keeping his tone deliberately casual, he questioned, "Do you know where Rafe is?" The young detective's desk was unoccupied. 

Once more distracted by the ringing of the telephone, Rhonda said, "I believe he's at lunch. He should be back soon." She allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. "Why?" 

"Oh, no special reason," reassured the cop. He gave her a brief grin and headed off as the administrative assistant answered the persistently ringing phone. 

Frowning to himself, Ellison returned to the locked conference room and let himself in. Once inside, he stood, indecisive, for some time; finally coming to a decision, he heaved a sigh and seated himself at the paper-strewn table. Until he could speak with either Banks or Warren, he was basically hamstrung. Anticipating his superiors' incredulity, Ellison set about writing a detailed, precise account of his and Sandburg's findings. Once he finished that, he steeled himself for a return to the files. He was certain there was something in them that would irrevocably tie his fellow detective to the murders. 

The hours passed unnoticed. Recalled to his surroundings by a knock on the door, Ellison glanced up as he said, "Yeah?" 

The door opened to reveal Joel Taggart; the Bomb Squad captain held a paper plate with a large slab of chocolate cake on it. "Sorry to bother you, Jim; Shirley just dropped a cake off and I thought you'd might like a piece of it." 

Touched by the older man's unthinking generosity, Ellison smiled. "Thanks, Joel." He reached for the plate. "You know how I love Shirley's baking." 

"Yeah, I do." Grinning at the look of pleasure on the chiseled face as Ellison took his first bite, Taggart started to leave, then stopped. "I was about to get myself some coffee to go with my cake. Do you want a cup?" 

"You don't have to go to all that trouble," objected Ellison. He started to rise. "I can..." 

"Nonsense." Joel shook his head. "I was already heading to the break room, how much trouble could it be to get you a cup, too?" He held up a hand to stop further protests. "I'll be right back." 

Humming to himself, and feeling a certain amount of pride on his wife's behalf over Ellison's obvious appreciation of her baking talent, Taggart entered the break room. Nodding a greeting to the other occupant, he headed for the coffee pot. After grabbing two disposable cups, he filled each of them with the steaming liquid, muttering under his breath, "One for me, one for Jim." Then he paused in the act of reaching for a plastic cup filled with paper packets. 

"Something wrong, Captain?" Rafe asked, hitching a hip against the counter next to him. 

"Are we out of the powdered creamer?" queried Joel. He held up a light blue paper packet. "These are all sugar." 

The young detective laughed. "I think I saw some in one of those drawers." He pointed to a group of drawers on the other side of the microwave. 

"For Heaven's sake, who moved them clear over there?" Taggart grumbled rhetorically. 

Crossing to the other side of the room, his cup of coffee in hand, it took him several minutes of pawing through the over-crowded drawer to find the creamer packets. Shaking a couple of packets into his coffee, Joel looked up to catch a small, pleased smile on the other man's face. "Well, you look like the cat who just ate a whole cage full of canaries. Has something good happened?" 

"I sure hope so." The secretive smile never leaving his face, Rafe watched as Taggart started to leave the break room. "Umm, Captain? Did you want this other cup of coffee?" He nodded at the hot beverage sitting on the counter next to him. 

Shaking his head ruefully, Joel reached out for the other cup as Rafe handed it to him. "Thanks, man. I don't think Jim would be too pleased if I came back without his coffee." 

"No, I don't think he would." 

Not hearing the underlying menace in the flat tone, Joel headed back to the conference room, carefully bearing both cups. Ellison met him at the doorway. 

"Thanks again, Joel." Taking his coffee from the other man, Jim took a big gulp. He swallowed the mouthful rather hurriedly. 

Seeing the strange look on his friend's face, Joel asked, "Is something wrong, Jim?" 

Sniffing at the coffee still in the cup, Jim answered absently, "No, not really. This just tastes a little funny, that's all." He took another hesitant sip. 

"They're probably testing a new brand of coffee. Remember when they used us as guinea pigs for those `healthful' cookies?" The large man shuddered dramatically as Ellison gave a faint grin. 

Hearing his name called, Taggart saw one of his Bomb Squad members at the end of the corridor, gesturing at him. "Excuse me a minute, Jim." 

When he returned approximately ten minutes later, the big detective was still standing in the conference room doorway. Or rather, he was leaning against the doorway. Seeing this, and noting that Ellison's face had gone pale and sweaty, Joel became instantly worried. "Jim! What's wrong?" 

Hearing the other man's voice as if through water, Ellison struggled to focus on his concerned friend. "Headache," he managed to get out. His voice was slightly slurred. "Funny, it just hit me." Lifting a shaky hand, he rubbed at his forehead. 

"You've probably been working too hard," Joel scolded kindly. "I know you, and I know how Simon sometimes pushes you." Having finished his own coffee while talking with the Bomb Squad man, he reached out and took the mostly-untouched cup from Ellison's hand. "You head on home and get some rest. When Simon comes in, I'll tell him what happened." 

"Can't, can't go home." Ellison was having an increasingly hard time keeping his thoughts in order. Taking a deep breath, he said, more or less coherently, "I have to finish this. It's important. Simon will..." 

"Simon will just have to wait," Taggart said firmly. "You go home; I mean it. Don't worry, I'll tell him that I insisted." He smiled. "He won't be able to argue with another captain's decision." Seeing that Ellison was still looking irresolute, he declared, "I mean it, Jim, go home. It's around three; it's late enough. I'll tidy up here and lock up for you." Then, giving the ashen-faced man another worried look, queried, "You want me to drive you home?" 

Thoughts whirling and spinning, Ellison was able to catch only about one word in ten. Late. Joel said it was late. He took another couple of deep breaths and, straightening from his slouch, said thickly, " I-I'm gonna call Blair...he'll come get me. I'm gonna, gonna wait in the truck. Get some fresh air." 

_I didn't think Blair would be home from Rainier yet._ Taggart looked at him worriedly for a moment, then gave a mental shrug. *Jim knows Blair's schedule; quit worrying, Joel.* " Good idea." 

Still somewhat concerned, Joel walked with the slightly unsteady man to the elevator and waited with him until the car arrived. Once he'd made sure Ellison was on his way, he went into the break room to dump the unwanted coffee, then returned to the conference room. Admitting to a deep curiosity as to what Ellison and Sandburg had been working on so secretively, he reached out a hand toward a stack of papers. It appeared to be Ellison's written report on whatever they'd been doing. Taggart stopped himself before he'd read more than a sentence or two. _No, Joel_ , he admonished himself sternly. *Whatever it is--it's none of your business. If you need to know, someone will tell you.* 

Picking up the room key from the table where Ellison had placed it, Joel left and locked the door behind himself. He stuck the key in his pocket, deciding he would return the key to Rhonda later...after he finished the rest of his wife's cake. 

<<<>>>

It took all of Jim's considerable willpower to keep himself upright and focused. His surroundings were showing a distressing tendency to waver and change shape in front of him. The elevator door slid open when the car reached the garage, and he stood there, blinking, for several minutes. Then, breathing deeply just as his Guide had taught him, the Sentinel headed unsteadily for his SUV. 

Unfortunately, the more steps he took toward the Expedition, the further away the vehicle seemed to get. Fighting to understand this paradox, Ellison staggered, falling heavily against the side of another car. He was distantly aware of hands on his shoulders, hands insistently forcing him into the car he was leaning against. A shout caught his ears, and he doubled over in agony as the sound waves pounded against his over-sensitive eardrums. It felt as though someone had fired off a cannon right next to him. Ears throbbing, he struggled to understand the words. 

"Hey! What's wrong with Ellison? He all right?" 

Faintly recognizing the speaker as an uniformed officer assigned to Vice, Jim tried to answer, but no sound emerged. Instead, horrified, he heard another familiar voice reply from behind him, "It's okay; he's just got a headache." 

Rafe gave the concerned officer a reassuring smile as he finished tucking the weakly fighting figure into his car. His muscles limp and uncoordinated, Ellison was able to put up less of a struggle than a five year old child. "Don't worry about it. I'll make sure that he gets home all right." 

Slamming the passenger door, the murderous detective hurried around to the driver's side and got in. He looked over at his captive, a hard glint in the normally friendly hazel eyes. "It won't do any good, Jim, to try to get out. I've locked the door, and it only unlocks from my side." Switching on the engine, Rafe threw the car into gear and sped up the garage ramp. 

As Rafe turned a hard right onto the street, Ellison managed to force out, "Why?" His mouth was full of cotton and darkness hovered at the periphery of his vision. 

"Why what, Jim? Why did I kill those four bastards? Or did you mean, why you?" Lips thin and tight as he struggled to hold back his rage, Rafe snarled, "You know why I'm doing this, Jim; you fucking well know why! I was willing to just dream--it hurt never to be able to touch--but I was willing, because I knew how it was with you. You were straight; okay, I can accept that. I could get my needs met by any faceless fuck and still love you. It just about killed me that you hardly seemed to notice I was alive, but I figured it was worth the occasional heartache if that's what it took to be around you. 

"I love you, you bastard; and all this time--while I was hurting and wishing and could never touch, could hardly even look--all this time you've been laughing at me behind my back! Been laughing at poor, infatuated Rafe the whole time you've been screwing that long-haired, hippie, cop-wannabe! Don't you damn well deny it, either! I followed you; I saw you and that disgusting boy..." He made the inoffensive word sound like an obscenity. "...kissing. In public! Well, I've had it, Jim," Rafe growled. An ugly, twisted expression took possession of the handsome face. "You're just like all the others and you need to be taught the same lesson." 

His chest constricting, Ellison realized the other man was completely insane. Losing the fight to keep the encroaching darkness at bay, he fell into it; worried that he would never awake...terrified that he would. 

<<<>>>

Limp with exhaustion, Simon Banks stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor. It had been a hellish two days; he was more than ready to return a few phone calls and then head home. _Don't know which is worse_ , he sighed internally. *Hearing that Daryl and Joan had been in a car accident, or a whole day of budget meetings with the chief of police*. As he was approaching Major Crime, he bumped into Taggart. 

"Hey, Joel." 

Giving him a sympathetic look, Taggart sheepishly confessed, "You know, Simon; I think I'd prefer disarming an unstable chemical bomb than having to go through the yearly budget meetings." 

"Want me to have one ready and leaking when it's your turn?" Banks offered with a tired grin. 

"You're such a good friend," chuckled Taggart. "What are you doing here? As exhausted as you must be, I'd expected you to head straight for home when the meetings ended." 

"Believe you me, I was tempted," groaned Banks, arching his back to try to relieve some of the aches caused by sitting in a stiff-backed chair for hours on end. "But I need to do a few things first." Rubbing at his reddened eyes, he asked, "Do you happen to know if Ellison is still in the building? I want to talk to him before I leave." 

Not even to himself would Simon admit that he'd deliberately put off answering Jim's phone messages. His pride was still sore and smarting over the fact that Ellison had blithely chosen Sandburg and a boring museum opening over him and their usual day at the auto show. He was also somewhat resentful of the knack Sandburg had of pulling the answer to a tough investigation seemingly out of mid-air; case in point, Ellison's current project. Simon knew he should be proud; since Sandburg had joined up with Ellison, the detective's already high solve rate had sky-rocketed. As captain of Major Crime, Banks was, consequently, in very good favor with the higher powers because of their successes. However, Simon could never quite rid himself of the irrational feeling that the quirky grad student was laughing at all the dumb, Neanderthal cops whenever their backs were turned. Hell, even his own son was a member of the damn kid's fan club! Unacknowledged jealousy simmering just below the surface, Banks had come to the conclusion that Ellison needed to be taught a lesson. Simon Banks was no one's mistress--someone to be tossed aside and ignored until Ellison needed something from him. Whatever the other man wanted, Banks had decided it could wait until he was ready to deal with it. Almost asleep on his feet, it took him a few seconds to understand what Joel was saying. 

"Jim? No, he left hours ago. I sent him home around three this afternoon." 

Banks woke up at that. "Sent him home? Why?" 

"He had such a bad headache, he could hardly stand up, let alone work," Taggart informed him, shaking his head. "So I told him to head home and get some rest." 

"A headache." Simon gave his friend a suspicious look. "You sure about that, Joel?" 

"For Heaven's sake, Simon," exclaimed Taggart. "The man was as white as a ghost and sweating like a pig. He wasn't faking it!" 

"Sorry, Joel." Feeling a stab of guilt, Simon explained, "It's just that I never know what Sandburg will talk him into next." 

"Well, he didn't talk Jim into this headache," Joel refuted firmly. "Blair left for Rainier at lunch time." 

"Guess I'd better call Ellison at home, then," decided Banks. Glancing down at his watch, he gave a slight groan. "Jesus, it's six-thirty already. That's it; I'm going to call him, then call it a day. I'm wiped." 

"Good idea," approved Taggart. "I'm going to finish the final report on the Whittier case: I'll drop it on your desk and then I'm right behind you." 

Heading on through the double doors, Banks walked a determined line toward his office. *Good, everybody seems to be working busily. Please, God, don't let anybody jump up and announce a crisis.* He made it into his office without any alarming news being relayed. Sighing in relief, Banks sank into his desk chair; leaning back, he again rubbed at his burning eyes. *I'll close them for a second; just a second, then I'll call Jim.* 

Between one breath and the next, he fell asleep. 

<<<>>>

Worriedly chewing on his lower lip, Blair gave the clock in the kitchen another glance. *It's almost seven; Jim should've been home half an hour ago. If he was going to be late, he would've called.* The grad student looked indecisively at the phone. *Maybe, maybe he and Simon are still talking about what to do about Rafe--maybe Chief Warren is with them and they lost track of the time.* 

A few more minutes of internal debate then, decision made, Sandburg picked up the phone and dialed Banks' office. *All Simon can do is yell at me for disturbing a meeting.* The phone rang three times before there was a clatter and the receiver was picked up. 

"Yeah?" Banks' voice was as gruff as though he'd been asleep. 

"Oh, hey, Simon; I'm sorry to bother you, but is Jim there?" 

"Sandburg, is that you?" Sounding marginally more awake, Banks demanded, "Why are you calling me at seven o'clock in the evening?" 

"I was looking for Jim," Sandburg repeated semi-patiently. "I wondered if he was in a meeting with you?" 

"You thought he might be in a meeting, yet you still called." The police captain's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Well, he's not here, Sandburg. He's at home, damn it; Joel said he sent him home. Why the hell don't you call the loft instead of bugging me!" 

"Joel sent him home?" Blair asked sharply. "Why? What time was that?" 

"According to Joel, Jim had a really bad headache," Banks reported, annoyed. "That was around three. I was just getting ready to call him when you rang." 

Sandburg's chest tightened. "Simon, I'm here at the loft. I've been here since five o'clock. Jim isn't here." 

"What? Are you sure?" There was a split second of silence. "Maybe he's just in bed; go up and take a look before you panic." 

Biting his tongue so he wouldn't tell Banks that he'd just awoken from a nap in their bed and no, Jim hadn't been there, Sandburg said agitatedly, "Jim isn't here, Simon! Maybe he had an accident or something!" 

"Now, don't go jumping to conclusions," Banks cautioned. "Just because..." 

A wild thought sparked, causing a lump of ice to settle in the anthropologist's stomach. Voice harsh with sudden fear, Blair interrupted the nascent tirade. "Simon, where's Rafe?" 

"Who? Rafe?" Banks was sounding more and more irritated. "What the hell does he have to do with anything?" 

"Simon, please," begged Blair, praying desperately that he was jumping at shadows. "Where's Rafe? Is he still in the bullpen?" 

Temper slipping, Banks growled, "You'd better have a damn good reason for this, Sandburg!" 

In the loft, the anxiously waiting grad student vaguely heard Banks shouting something in the background. An even more distant voice responded. The phone clattered again, and Banks was back. "He's gone home. According to Hanson, he left about the same time as Jim." 

Blair felt a tidal wave of terror wash over him. 

"Sandburg!" barked Simon. "Are you there? What the hell is going on here?!" 

Mouth working, it took the younger man some time to say anything intelligible. "Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, Simon...he's got Jim." The words came out as a raw whisper. Panic flooding his soul, Blair cried frantically, "Oh, god, Simon--he's got Jim!" 

"Who's got Jim? Sandburg, what the fuck are you talking about?" snarled Banks. "You're not making any sense!" 

Thoughts attempting to fly off into six different directions, Sandburg said distractedly, "Put out an APB, Simon; do it now! I'm coming in; I'll be there in a few minutes." 

Grabbing his jacket off its hook, Sandburg rushed to the door. Flinging it open, he belatedly remembered he was still holding the portable phone. He threw it absently at the sofa; it landed on a cushion and bounced, Banks' voice still bellowing tinnily through its speaker. 

The Corvair sped through the early evening traffic. Hands grasping the steering wheel in a death grip, Sandburg drove the familiar route on auto-pilot. His mind was overflowing with fleeting montages of torn, mutilated bodies, shattered bone clearly visible through deep, bloody crevasses; twisted, misshapen chunks of flesh which had once been a human face. Heart beating so rapidly he could barely breath, Sandburg kept repeating to himself, *That's not Jim; just you remember that, Sandburg--that's not Jim. You--the police--will find him before that happens. That won't happen to Jim...you won't let it.* 

Tires screeching as he careened down the garage ramp, Sandburg flew into the first available parking slot and slammed on the brakes. Flinging himself out of the vehicle, he tore across the parking lot. Impatiently stabbing at the elevator button, he shifted nervously from foot to foot. 

"C'mon, c'mon," he muttered under his breath. "C'mon!" 

The moment the elevator door started opening, he squeezed inside and punched the button for the seventh floor. All but wringing his hands, he paced back and forth in the little car. The ride seemed interminable. Again, the door had barely opened before he was sliding through. The short distance to Major Crime was completed at a dead run. 

All conversation in the bullpen came to an instantaneous halt when the distraught grad student burst through the double doors. Before he could catch his breath, the door to Banks' office opened and both Banks and Taggart emerged. The latter appeared worried and confused; Banks was just plain furious. 

"This is a working police station, Sandburg!" he yelled, not giving the anthropologist time to open his mouth. "I will not have you disrupting it with your little games." 

Sandburg over-rode him. "Did you do it? Did you put out the APB?" 

Banks' temper ratcheted up another notch. "Why the fuck would I do that?! Just on your say-so? It's about damn time you learned just who was in charge here, Sandburg; and it sure as hell isn't you!" 

Frowning, Taggart came up to the shaken man. The closer he got to Sandburg, the deeper his frown grew. Regardless of what Simon had led him to believe, Joel could see that Blair was sincerely frightened. 

"What's wrong, Blair?" he asked quietly, laying a comforting hand on the other man's arm. The Bomb Squad captain could feel the tremors running through the sturdy form. "Tell me why you think we should put out an APB on Jim." 

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Banks exploded. "It's perfectly obvious..." 

Taggart turned and gave his fellow captain a quelling glare. There were times, he firmly believed, when Simon's hair-trigger temper and immediate tendency to bluster and shout would only aggravate an already grave situation. He'd counseled his friend time and time again to watch that habit, yet he doubted that Banks would ever change. 

Turning back to the trembling grad student, Taggart softly urged, "Come on, Blair...tell me what's wrong." 

Running both hands over his face, Sandburg forced himself to take deep, measured breaths. *Of course, they think you're crazy, Sandburg; you come running in here like a mad man.* When he had himself under somewhat precarious control, Blair said shakily, "Si-Simon told me that you'd sent Jim home with a bad headache around three o'clock. He wasn't home when I got there just after five, and he's not home now." 

A low murmur of concern sounded through the bullpen. Banks never lost his expression of barely-contained fury. 

Joel felt his heart start to beat faster. "Oh, good Lord." Turning to Hanson, he ordered, "Quick, put in a call to Dispatch. Have all units look for Ellison's SUV." 

"That won't do any good," Blair blurted out. He was visibly vibrating with pent-up fear. At Joel's quizzical look, he explained, "I just saw the Expedition down in the garage." 

The concerned muttering grew. Even Banks had lost a little of his pugnacious attitude. 

"Besides, I know who has him; I know where he is. Well, not where exactly, precisely," Blair corrected himself rapidly. "It's Rafe, he must've figured out about Jim and... I-I mean, he realized that we were closing in. Somehow, he took Jim and we've got to hurry before he..." Sandburg gulped and made himself continue, "...before he does to Jim what he did to the others." Staring at a sea of blank faces, Sandburg felt his control slip and he shouted, "What is wrong with you people?! We have to get Jim back!" 

"Kid, what the hell are you talking about?" It was Art Matthews, a burly, laconic twenty-year detective. He was the debonair Hanson's partner. 

"He's obviously inhaled too much dust off his old pots," Banks said dismissively. 

Joel shot him another penetrating look. "Simon, this is no time for sarcasm," he reproved sternly. "Jim is missing, and we need to start looking for him." 

"I understood that part," Hanson said, glancing at his partner. "But what the hell is Sandburg rambling about? Rafe's going to do what to Jim?" 

"Hanson, I hardly think..." 

Again, Sandburg stepped on Banks' comment. "Right, right, you wouldn't know," he muttered, almost to himself. "How could you?" Again scrubbing his face with both hands, he took several more deep breaths, then smiled tightly. "Sorry, guys. It's my fault; I can hardly blame you for thinking I've lost it." 

Needing to expend some of his panic-caused energy, he began pacing up and down the bullpen. "On Tuesday morning, Chief Warren asked Jim and I to investigate a series of brutal murders." 

This time it was Banks who did the interrupting. "Sandburg, that's enough!" he barked. "I hardly think the bullpen is the place to discuss confidential requests from Chief Warren." 

"Simon, if this has to do with Jim's disappearance, it'll soon be common knowledge," disputed Taggart. He returned his attention to Sandburg. "Go on, Blair." 

Banks ground his teeth; he hated to be corrected in front of his men. He and Joel were going to have a long talk as soon as he could reasonably get rid of Sandburg and his crackpot notions. 

Hands flying, still pacing, Sandburg told the rapt bullpen how they'd discovered all four of the victims were gay; he told them that Jim had figured out that at least three of the victims had been killed in an old kerosene/pine products warehouse. Without stopping to draw breath, he informed them how he and Jim had determined three of the murder victims had been seeing someone named Jeff. 

At that point, Sandburg halted, and glanced around somewhat uncertainly. He remembered how difficult it had been for Jim to accept the next part. The grad student was under no illusions how the information was going to be received by Rafe's co-workers and friends. 

"Well, c'mon, kid; finish it," growled Ricardo, a uniformed officer assigned to Major Crime. "I know Ellison; he's figured out who the killer is, hasn't he?" 

"Yeah, Ricardo; he has." Taking a deep breath, Sandburg acknowledged, "You guys aren't going to like this--Jim and I didn't like it. We checked and double-checked, but it always came out the same. Jim's been trying to talk to the captain about it for the last two days, but Simon's been busy." He glanced over at Banks; the angry face had acquired a decidedly guilty cast. "I know you're not going to believe a word I say, but it's all true. I swear. All I ask is that you listen, all right?" 

Taking another deep, fortifying breath, Sandburg nervously related the reluctant conclusion they had come to, and the steps they'd taken to disprove their mounting suspicions. As he talked, the atmosphere in the bullpen grew heavy with anger and disbelief. 

When he'd finished, the young anthropologist looked around at the tight, closed expressions on the faces of men he'd worked with and counted as friends. "I said you wouldn't believe it," he said desperately. "But it's all true...I swear to god. Why would I lie about this? What good would it do? Do you think I'm not aware that everyone of you wants to tar and feather me where I stand? Rafe is one of you; I'm just Ellison's flaky college student ride-along." 

"I think we've heard enough of your paranoid delusions, Sandburg," Banks said crisply. "I don't know what you have to gain by trying to dirty the name of a good cop, but I won't hear anymore. Get the hell out of here, and let us get started on finding Jim. Go home and sleep off whatever the hell it is you're on." 

"Simon, no," pleaded Sandburg. He could feel the panic boiling just below the surface. _If he won't let them help me find Jim..._ "Jim tried to tell you several times; but first you were gone to get Daryl, and then you had the meetings. He's left you messages. Rhonda said she'd told you." 

Her face pale, sitting silently at her desk, the administrative assistant nodded in confirmation. 

"You heard me, Sandburg; get..." 

It was Taggart who now over-rode Banks. "Simon, wait." The big Bomb Squad captain was hurrying back into the bullpen, papers held in one hand. "While Blair was explaining, I remembered something," he said, slightly breathless. "So I ran to the conference room and got it." Holding up the papers, he continued, "When I sent Jim home this afternoon, I told him I would put all the papers he'd been working on back in the box and lock up. I frankly forgot to do that, but I did start to read through one stack of papers. It was this one." 

"So what?" Banks demanded harshly. He'd had enough of being treated like a second-class citizen in his own bullpen. "Those four files had hundreds of papers in them. It proves nothing." 

"This isn't from the files," Joel said excitedly. "It's in Jim's handwriting. I think it's the report he was leaving for you and Chief Warren. I only scanned it just now, but it appears he agrees with Blair." 

The bullpen erupted. 

"Silence!" bellowed Banks, giving everyone an impartial frosty glare. He turned to Taggart and, not bothering to hide his irritation, stated, "You probably read it wrong, Joel." 

"Read it aloud, Captain," suggested Hanson. He looked around at his fellow officers. "If what Sandburg said is true; if Ellison really believed..." 

"He did, he did," Blair confirmed urgently. "He told me he hated the idea of suspecting someone he'd considered a friend and who'd been a guest in his home. I'm not making this up, honest!" 

Banks gave a put-upon sigh. "Okay, Joel; read it. I thoroughly doubt it's going to say anything useful, but..." 

An taut silence fell. It only took Taggart a few minutes to read the five page document. When he'd finished, he looked grimly over at Banks. 

"Bullshit," was Simon's considered opinion. 

The bullpen exploded again; raised voices could be heard in every corner. 

"Simon, how can you say that?!" Taggart's voice rose above the tumult. "You heard what I read; Blair was right. Rafe _did_ kill those four men, and Jim had proof!" 

"How can I say that?" As Banks spoke, the noise level died down. "Very easily, Joel." Aware that his men were listening intently, Banks knew they were looking to him to straighten out this matter. "We all know how Sandburg does Ellison's reports all the time; hell, the damn kid probably even signs them for him. Sandburg must've forged the whole thing." 

"Simon, no." whispered Blair. He looked devastated. Pale and shaking, he was staring at Banks through huge, stunned eyes. 

Taggart was just as dumbfounded. "Simon, why would Blair do that? *When *did he do that?" he demanded, incredulity thick in his voice. "How was he to know that Jim would disappear? These papers were in the locked conference room and I've had the key in my pocket since I sent Jim home. When could Blair have done this?" 

"That's not important right now." Banks impatiently waved off Taggart's objections. "What's important is that I have a missing detective, and while we've been standing here listening to this fairy story, his trail has gotten colder." He turned to go back into his office. 

"Simon, no!" The despairing shout burst from the young anthropologist. Hands outstretched in an unconscious plea, he entreated, "You've got to believe me! The only way to find Jim is to find out which warehouse Rafe uses. We can't afford any delay; we have to hurry. Oh, please, every minute we stand here arguing, it's giving Rafe more time to...to hurt him. I've seen pictures of what he did to his victims...what he could be doing to J-Jim." 

Voice low and rough, he begged, "Please, you have to say you'll help me find him. Please." 

Tear-bright azure eyes locked with stormy brown ones for a long, pregnant moment. 

"I don't have to do anything of the sort, Sandburg," Banks declared finally. His tone was pure ice. "What I have to do is find my missing detective; and you're doing a damn good job of stopping me from doing so. Why is that?" 

"W-What?" Frantic with worry, Sandburg could not comprehend the meaning of the question. He could only gaze numbly at the big police captain, eyes dark and full of haunted shadows. 

Taggart was almost speechless with disbelief at what Banks was implying. "Simon!" he protested sharply. "What on earth are you trying to say?!" He shifted to stand protectively next to the shattered anthropologist. 

"I'm not trying to say anything," Banks retorted. "Yet. Sandburg, in my office. You and I need to talk." 

Blair automatically moved to follow the older man. The images refused to leave his terrified mind: suede-soft skin, ripped and torn, hanging in tatters; lovely, taut buttocks and beautiful cock, bloodied, defiled; strong, protective muscles shredded, pierced by multiple bone shrapnel; a beloved, handsome face, disfigured beyond all recognition. 

Taggart made as to go with them, but Banks held up a staying hand. 

"Just Sandburg," he said firmly. 

Seeing the inflexible look in his friend's eyes, Taggart swallowed his fierce objections. Heart sinking, he watched concernedly as Sandburg stumbled into the office, followed by Simon Banks. The big captain firmly shut his office door behind him. 

Feeling as though he was teetering on the edge of an abyss, Blair forced himself to try once again. "Simon, we've..." 

"The proper way to address me is `sir' or `Captain'!" thundered Banks. "What is it going to take to get that through your damn head?! My first name is reserved for my friends and I don't recall giving you permission to use it!" 

Sandburg flinched as though he'd been slapped. Fighting back the stab of pain--he'd always considered Banks a friend and had naively assumed the feeling was returned--he said frantically, "Captain Banks, please; we have to find Jim!" 

"Now that's something we both agree on, Sandburg." Ignoring the twinges of his conscience at sight of the pale, hurt face, Banks moved around behind his desk. "But `we' are not going to look for him; `I', meaning the police department, are going to look for him. You are a police observer, not a police officer. That classification means something very specific; you observe only--you do not direct, you do not interact and that observing is done solely at the discretion of the department head. Me." 

Sandburg impatiently brushed all that aside. *If it means he'll quit yelling and start acting, I'll agree to anything he wants!* "Then you're going to put out an APB on Rafe?" he asked eagerly. 

"No, I am not." Upping the voltage of his glare, Banks snapped, "No matter your ravings, I don't think Rafe is responsible for those murders, and I refuse to believe Jim Ellison thought any such thing!" 

"But...the report." Dizzy with the roller-coasting of his emotions, Sandburg fought to get his words out. "Jim tried to tell you yesterday; he left you messages all day today!" Anger rising along with his panic, he argued, "Why the hell didn't you answer those messages? Rhonda said she'd told you about them, or are you going to call _her_ a liar, too?" 

Conveniently overlooking the angry question, Banks said, "When I hear this supposed proof straight from Jim's mouth, then I'll believe it. Now, get the hell out of here so I can start searching for him." 

The abyss yawned wide at Sandburg's feet and it led straight into Hell. "Oh, god, no!" he cried. "Please...you can't do this. I'll get out; I'll stay completely out of the PD, if you want. You want my observer's pass? You've got it. Just please, please...Rafe is the key. He's the one who took Jim." 

Purposefully ignoring the agonized plea, Banks poured himself a cup of day-old coffee. 

Hell was drawing him in. "Please, please," Blair beseeched, voice raw and desperate. "You can't do this! If Jim is your friend, if-if you value him at all..." Choking on his unshed tears, he said thickly, "I've seen the pictures of what Rafe did to those poor men. There was nothing human left when he finished with them. He-he tortured them...destroyed them." Anguish threatened to pull him under. "For god's sake, you can't let him do that to Jim!" 

Caught up in his own personal nightmare, it took several long minutes before the tormented anthropologist became aware of the stunned silence. Blinking away the moisture in his eyes, he re-focused on the other man. 

A curious amalgam of abhorrence, horror and nausea on his face, Banks thudded into his office chair. "Oh, my god," he said in an appalled whisper. "It's...it's true. I'd wondered, but I wasn't sure. You are..." Words failed him, and he looked as though he was going to be ill. 

White-hot fury suddenly flooding him, Sandburg threw all discretion to the four winds. Nothing mattered now except getting Jim back safe and sound. "I'm what?" he snapped. "In love with Jim? Yes." His eyes flashed defiantly. "There--I've admitted it; are you happy now? We still have to..." 

"Shut your god-damned faggot mouth." 

Face flushing bright red, then draining of all color, Blair actually staggered backward a few steps. Azure eyes saucered in shock. 

Banks had regained his mental breath. "You fucking, damn pervert. Jim took you in, got you access to the PD and this is how you repay him?!" 

Blair opened his mouth, but no words would come out. 

"Is that why you're trying to pull this shit? Did Rafe find out about your disgusting behavior and threaten to tell Jim? That's it, isn't it?" Barely able to look at the younger man, Banks snarled contemptuously, "That's why you decided to accuse a good cop of murder. It's not bad enough that you're trying to corrupt Jim with your depraved behavior, you decide you have to ruin Rafe's life, too! You filthy, degenerate..." 

Overloaded, overwhelmed, the anthropologist's mind shut down. The hateful, scalding words came to him as from a great distance. Banks' voice, distant and distorted, lost all coherent meaning. 

*He--he won't help me find you, Jim. The PD...all those resources...all those men. Not find you...that means...that means... I'll never see that lovely face again. Never see those beautiful cornflower blue eyes, so full of love, that gorgeous mouth, smiling at me, laughing at me. No, this isn't happening; it's not real. I'm asleep. That's it; I'm just asleep. I want to wake up now, Jim. Please help me wake up.* 

"I've got you now, you fucking cocksucker," Banks hissed triumphantly. "Just wait until..." 

Without warning, the office door flew open, and Chief Timothy Warren came barreling through. Taking in the white-faced, trembling figure standing before the large oak desk and the coldly furious man behind it, he reached out and shut the door behind him. 

Focusing a piercing stare at the grad student, he demanded, "Is it true? David Rafe killed those men, and now he's kidnapped Ellison?" 

"No, it's not true!" spat Banks. "That's just a pathetic attempt..." 

"Captain Banks, I believe I was talking to Mr. Sandburg." Warren's voice was icily authoritative. 

Banks flushed angrily, but sealed his mouth. Flashing ebony eyes shot daggers at the anthropologist. 

Shrewd eyes still fixed on Sandburg, Warren reiterated, "Did David Rafe kill those four men and kidnap Jim Ellison?" 

The query slowly penetrated Blair's shocked mind. Hazily, he realized that here was another chance, that Warren could over-ride Banks' inexplicable, damning orders. That maybe, just maybe, Jim was not lost to him quite yet. 

"Yes." His voice cracked on the word. Swallowing audibly, Blair tried again. "Yeah. It's true. All of it." 

Warren gave a gusting sigh and sank into the chair in front of Banks' desk. "You'd better tell me everything." 

"Sir!" Banks protested heatedly. "I hardly think." His mouth clamped shut once more at Warren's steely glare. 

Feeling a tiny flicker of hope re-surfacing, Sandburg launched into explanation. His gaze steady on the attentively-listening police chief, Blair tried to make his report as detailed and factual as possible, forcing himself to forego his natural tendency to ramble. When he'd finished, there was a momentary silence. 

"See, what did I tell you?" Banks said scornfully. "It's all lies and halftruths; there's not a single piece of solid evidence in anything he claims." 

"I believe him." Warren looked blandly over at the angry captain, then up at the frantic Sandburg. "True, the evidence is all circumstantial at this point--even Ellison admitted that. However, that doesn't discount the truth of what they found." 

Head swimming dizzily, Sandburg gave Warren a wavering smile. "You...you believe me?" Voice heavy with reborn hope, he asked, "You'll let the police help me find Jim?" 

"Chief Warren!" For a few, tense moments, words failed Banks. When he regained his voice, he ground out through clenched teeth, "Sir, I respectfully suggest you re-consider. There is no corroborating evidence that Rafe has done anything illegal." 

"Maybe there isn't at this point," agreed Warren. "But there is solid evidence that something is drastically wrong." He glanced up at Sandburg for a moment, then continued, "I'd read Ellison's report before coming in here; I just wanted to see if Sandburg's version tallied with it. I also spoke with Bob Mackey." 

For a moment, an over-stressed Sandburg could not place the name. Then he re-called the person in question was an officer assigned to Vice, just down the hall. 

"What's Mackey got to do with this?" Banks' curt inquiry was borderline insubordinate. 

"He heard all the hubbub in the bullpen and wandered in to see what was going on," Warren said. "I came in while he was relating a strange little tale." Transferring his gaze to Sandburg, he went on, "Around three o'clock this afternoon, Mackey was in the garage. He saw Ellison being `helped' into a car by Rafe. Ellison looked like hell, according to Mackey, and he also seemed to be fighting being put into the car. When he questioned what was going on, Rafe told him Ellison had a headache and that he was taking him home. Mackey concluded he'd read more into the incident than was there and promptly forgot about it. That is, until Hanson told him the shocking discovery Ellison had made about his colleague, and the fact that Ellison had never made it home. Then, Mackey realized that he'd actually witnessed Rafe making away with Ellison." 

Relief that there was collaborating evidence washed over Blair so strongly, he staggered. Jumping up, Warren guided the swaying man into the chair he'd just deserted. "Thank you," Blair whispered, looking gratefully at the police chief. "Thank you for believing me." 

"Oh, I believe you, son, and even if I didn't, I've always believed Ellison's conclusions. The man's about as diplomatic as a rhino with sore hemorrhoids, but he's a damn good cop." Warren glanced over at a silent and resentful Banks. "Captain," he ordered crisply, "I want you to have your men start looking for that warehouse. They also need to further establish a link between Rafe and those four murder victims. We've got some pretty damning circumstantial proof; now let's get something physical to back it up." 

Putting a hand under Sandburg's elbow, he assisted the shaky younger man to his feet. "Oh, and one more thing, Banks." 

"Yes, sir?" Simon asked through stiff lips. 

"Mr. Sandburg is to continue to assist in this investigation. He is to have immediate access to any and all resources in order to find and stop David Rafe before he kills again. Is that clear?" 

Banks had to swallow several times before he could answer. "Crystal clear, sir." 

"Good. Let's get this ball rolling; we have a fellow police officer to save and a murderer to bring to justice." 

Rigid with rage and humiliation, Banks slowly came to his feet. Opening the door, he led the others out of his office. 

Silence fell immediately. 

Under the weight of Warren's expectant gaze, Banks took a deep breath. Each word feeling as though it were being physically torn from his throat, he growled, "Okay, people, this is what we're going to do. Perez, since you're working solo for the present..." Ray Perez was the partner of the hapless Gary Lowell, who was itching forlornly at home due to a five year old with a case of chicken pox. "...I want you to get with the PDs from San Francisco, Portland and Spokane. Get all you can on those unsolved murders; also we'll need a copy of Rafe's personnel file from each of those cities. Tell them to address any questions concerning authorization to Chief Warren." 

Perez nodded. 

Banks went on, "Hanson, Matthews, I want you two to find some definitive proof that Rafe knew our murder victims. If he was actually dating them, they must've gone to restaurants, theaters, you name it. Surely, somebody, somewhere will remember them." 

"Yes, sir," answered Matthews; his partner nodded briskly. 

"Steadman, Hunter, Richardson, Jackson." Banks spoke to a group of uniformed officers. "I want you guys to go over to Rafe's apartment. I can't believe he's there, but check out the place, anyway. If he's not there, I want you stay put and keep it under surveillance. Hopefully, he won't know we're looking for him yet." 

"Yes, sir." The acknowledgments came simultaneously. 

"What about the warehouses?" questioned Taggart. 

Before Banks could open his mouth, Sandburg queried, "Could Captain Taggart and I work on that angle?" He directed the question at Warren, a gesture which did not escape Banks. 

Or the rest of the bullpen. 

"I don't see why not," replied the police chief. He looked over at Banks. "Do you have any objections, Captain?" 

Bitterly aware that Warren had asked only as a matter of courtesy, Banks swallowed hard. Smiling grimly, he said, "Of course not." 

"Good." Warren looked around the bullpen. "Remember, people; even though we're out to catch a vicious serial killer, our main concern should always be getting Ellison back alive and well. Mr. Sandburg will give you all the background information you need to complete the tasks Captain Banks assigned to you. Major Crime is Cascade PD's finest, I have every confidence you will once again earn that honor." 

"Sir, I've been thinking about how Rafe could've forced Jim into his car," ventured Taggart. "Jim had been fine until he drank a cup of coffee I'd given him; ten minutes later, he could hardly stand up. Thing is," he told his audience, "Rafe was already in the break room when I went to get the coffee. I had my back turned to him for several minutes because someone had mysteriously moved the creamer packets over to the far side of the room. He could have easily drugged Jim's coffee while I was busy." 

"Good idea, Captain," declared Warren. "We need to retrieve Ellison's cup and get it down to Trace for chemical analysis." 

"Already done, sir," Joel stated. "I had Ricardo dig out all the cups in the break room waste basket; I disposed of Jim's cup in there once he'd left. There were only four or five cups in the basket. He took them all down to Forensics while you were conferring with Captain Banks." 

"Looks like your people have everything under control, Captain Banks." Warren gave a last look around before heading for the double doors. 

Once he'd left, Banks ordered, "Rhonda, I want everything Ellison was working on in my office. I'm going to go through those files myself." At Rhonda's nod, he started to turn back into his office, then halted. "Oh, and people, one last thing. Going off half-cocked will not get Ellison back. No one is to take any action of any sort without specifically clearing it with me first. With _me_...is that clearly understood?" As he was speaking, he was glaring coldly at Sandburg. 

Puzzled expressions on their faces, the bullpen nodded an affirmative. All of them seasoned police officers, they were aware of the abrupt tension between Banks and Sandburg, although they were clueless as to its cause. 

"Good." With that, Banks vanished into his office. 

For a long, elongated moment, the bullpen seemed frozen in a strange tableau. 

Bizarrely feeling the whole mess was somehow his fault, Blair said helplessly, "I'm sorry, guys. Really...I'm so sorry." 

Silence reigned for another few moments then, Matthews, looking around and seeing the minute nods from his co-workers, replied, "We know, kid. Don't worry about it, okay? Let's just focus on finding your partner." 

Again feeling a vast sweep of relief--this time that he hadn't succeeded in alienating every one of Jim's colleagues--Sandburg nodded. "Okay," he agreed hoarsely. "I...I can do that." 

Suddenly the grad student was surrounded by cops eager for information. While he'd been in Banks' office, Taggart had gathered up the files from the conference room and the box was sitting on Rhonda's desk. Blair gave the print-out from the other PDs to Perez, then spent twenty minutes with Hanson and Matthews going over everything he and Ellison had learned from Mae Winstead, Carlos Salazaar and Douglas Adler's uncle, Lawrence Shum. 

The two detectives immediately grabbed their jackets and left. Luckily for the distressed Sandburg's fragile state of mind, he couldn't hear their conversation as they waited for the elevator. 

"Well," mused Hanson, for once not smiling and cheerful. "I guess that issue's been settled. The only question left is: Who gets the pot? He admitted it to the whole, damn bullpen." 

"Yeah," sighed Matthews. 

Back in Major Crime's bullpen, Rhonda had claimed Sandburg's attention. "Blair, are you finished with the files? I need to take them into Captain Banks." 

"Sure, Rhonda." Giving a fleeting smile, Sandburg quickly pulled out the list of warehouses. "It's all yours." 

"Thank you." Before she picked up the box, the slender blonde placed a gentle hand on Sandburg's left cheek. "It was probably a good thing I called Chief Warren, don't you think?" Picking up the small box, she said reassuringly, "Try not to worry too much about Jim, all right? We'll find him." 

Speechless, Sandburg stared after her as she disappeared into Banks' office. *She couldn't have meant what I thought she meant. I'm just uptight and reading too much into everything.* 

Shaking his head, he turned to face Taggart. The big captain had a peculiar look on his face. 

"Is something the matter, Joel?" 

"Blair, I'm so sorry." Taggart glanced away and then back. Chagrined and mortified, he confessed, "It's my fault Rafe got Jim. I handed him the damn coffee; I should've suspected something was up." 

The rare expletive from the easy-going, deeply religious Taggart told Sandburg just how guilty his friend was feeling. "It wasn't your fault," he told the other man firmly. "There was no reason for you to be suspicious. You weren't aware of what Jim and I were working on; you couldn't have known how Rafe would react." Shying away from the images crowding his mind, Blair swiftly changed the subject. "Let's take another look at those warehouses. There's something there, I'm sure; I just can't put my finger on it." 

Giving the downbent face a look of total understanding, Joel led the younger man over to Ellison's desk. Deliberately choosing to sit in Sandburg's usual chair, he reached up and took the piece of paper, saying quietly, "Let's have a look at that list." 

Grateful beyond measure at his friend's low-key, yet professional attitude, Blair handed him the list. Then, taking several breaths, he lowered himself into Jim's desk chair. _This is only temporary, babe,_ he promised the absent Ellison. _Just until you get back, all right? Then it's all yours again._

"I've got a feeling about those warehouses," he repeated, running a hand through already disheveled hair. "There's something there; I know it. I just can't seem to shake it out of my brain." 

"Maybe between the two of us, we can figure it out," Joel stated, glancing down at the list. "What's bothering you about them? Their locations? Heck, they're all over the place: Butler, Jackson, Leopold, Burnett; there's even one clear out on Melwinne." 

Frowning, Sandburg tried to concentrate. He knew Joel was only trying to help him focus, but his mind stubbornly continued wanting to be distracted. _Stop it,_ he told himself angrily. *Just fucking stop it, all right? You're terrified you're going to find Jim in the same condition as those other guys. Well, it's a fucking certainty you will if you don't stop this shit and start thinking, damn it. Now come on...think.* 

"I don't know," the anthropologist said slowly. He looked over at the other man. "I honestly don't know, Joel; I just know it's there." 

Stifling a sigh, Taggart shrugged. "Let's start looking for it, then." He reached out and grabbed the pad Ellison always left next to his phone. Writing quickly, he scribbled down the addresses of the warehouses. "Ricardo," he called when he'd finished. 

Sandburg was staring blankly at him when the uniform walked over. 

"Yes, Captain?" queried the Hispanic officer. 

"Here's the list of warehouses," Taggart said. "I want you to grab a bunch of uniforms and check them all out. Even if you find nothing, I want you to leave a team at each of them just in case." 

"Right away." Ricardo started to turn away then, remarkably, gave the watching grad student a comforting wink. 

Blair's jaw dropped. 

Taggart hid his grin. "All right, then," he said briskly. "Let's get at it." 

<<<>>>

The stone-mounted clock on the sidewalk outside Colette's was striking three AM when Sandburg pulled the Corvair into its usual parking spot. Wearily climbing out of the car, he plodded across the parking area and let himself in through the downstairs door. He slowly climbed the stairs to the third floor and let himself into the loft. Automatically throwing the deadbolt, he turned away and stopped, dead, in his tracks. Reaching out a tremulous hand, he lightly touched Jim's brown leather jacket. Against his will, the bloody images washed through his mind once more, almost sending him to his knees. 

Fighting the urge to hyperventilate, Sandburg stood there, shaking violently, arms clutched tightly around himself. "I'll find you, Jim," he vowed fiercely. "I'm going to find you, and bring you home. Just hold on and wait for me. I'm coming." 

Finally getting himself back under control, Sandburg took a steadying breath and headed for the dining table. Although Joel Taggart had sent him home to get some rest--if not actual sleep--the anthropologist knew there was no way that was going to happen. Placing his backpack on the table, he pulled out his laptop and switched it on. While waiting for it to power up, he went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. 

It was going to be a long night. 

Ricardo and the rest of the uniformed officers had reported in around eleven. According to them, all the warehouses on the list had appeared deserted and long abandoned. There was no indication at any of them that a person had been near them within the last few years. Sandburg refused to be discouraged. Although there was no rational explanation for it, he knew the answer to Jim's whereabouts lay in that list of warehouses. 

He was also grimly determined to somehow find a way to produce physical proof against Rafe. 

While they'd been working, Taggart had taken a phone call from Chris Morimoto down in Trace. Using Jim's fingerprints as a guide, the Forensic technician had easily isolated the correct coffee cup. Luckily, a small amount of coffee had been left in the bottom of the styrofoam cup. He was able to remove a sample and prepare it for the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. The machine had then spit out a result...Jim Ellison had been given a large dose of GHB, the date rape drug. Mouth thinning when a grim Taggart relayed the news, Sandburg had not said a word. Ellison, because of his Sentinel abilities, did not react well to normal medications. There was no telling how the illicit drug would've affected him. 

Now, sitting alone in an abnormally quiet loft that was no longer a home to him, Blair Sandburg set about searching for a way to bring a murdering monster to justice. 

He deliberately refused to think about the scene in Banks' office. 

<<<>>>

Moaning. Someone was moaning. Head splitting, stomach roiling with nausea, Jim Ellison fervently wished the other person would shut the hell up. As the darkness began to recede, he realized he was the one making the noise. He also realized that he couldn't move his arms or legs. 

"Aren't you awake yet?" The voice was familiar, and rife with annoyance. "For god's sake, I didn't give you that much!" 

Memory abruptly flooded back. Continuing to feign unconsciousness, Ellison assessed his physical status. Thankfully, the nausea and pounding in his head were starting to fade. Furtively attempting to move his extremities, he determined he was more or less upright and shackled to something. Shivering as a cool breeze caressed him, he also came to the worrying conclusion that he was naked. 

"For christ's sake, wake up!" 

A whistling of air, and a painful, back-handed slap landed on the cop's left cheek. 

Opening his eyes, Ellison glared at his attacker. Harsh, bright overhead lights stabbed at his eyes, exacerbating his headache. "You've never heard of kissing the sleeping prince awake?" 

Another blow came; this time the slap landed across his mouth. 

"Don't patronize me!" hissed Rafe, right hand drawn back for another blow. "Don't you fucking well patronize me, Ellison. That isn't smart, not after what you've done to me." This time, the slap rocked Ellison's head back. 

Spitting blood from his cut lip, Ellison snarled, "I never did anything to you, you sick fuck. It's all in your twisted mind." 

A clenched fist drove itself deep into his stomach. Unable to bend over, the bound Sentinel whooped and gasped for air. 

"You're just like all the others," Rafe said angrily. "You think you're too good for someone like me; I'm just scum to you!" 

"Well, now what you mention it..." 

A second blow to the abdomen robbed Ellison of his ability to breathe. When he could draw a little air into his abused lungs, he gasped, "Why'd you kill them? What did they ever do to you?" 

"What did they do to me?" echoed the insane man. "They treated me like dirt beneath their feet, that's what! They led me to believe they felt something for me then, when I actually came to think that I might be able to have some life outside my dreams of you, they threw me away like so much garbage. Even that drug-addicted bastard, Taylor, thought he could treat me like trash!" Pacing rapidly back and forth in front of the bound Ellison, Rafe was practically foaming at the mouth in his rage. "I won't be treated like so much street trash; I won't. After John, I swore I would never let anyone treat me like that again!" 

Mouth and face already swollen and painful, Ellison decided to switch tactics and attempt to placate the frenzied man. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Rafe. I never had a clue you had feelings for me." 

"Oh, yes, you did, you bastard!" Rafe stopped pacing and glowered at him. "You knew--everyone in the fucking bullpen knew I had a thing for you. They talked about me behind my back, called me `Ellison's eager little puppy'. But I could put up with that if it meant I got to see you every day, work with you. I could accept you not being into guys; it hurt, but Life can be a real bitch sometimes. You hardly seemed to notice I was alive, but I had a plan for that. I worked so hard, trying to be a good detective, to prove to you that I was as capable as Brown and the rest of them. 

"Then, then you got assigned to the fucking Langstrom case. I knew if anybody could solve it, you would. I kept offering to help you, so I could find out what you were doing, but, as usual, all you did was blow me off." Scowl growing, Rafe resumed his agitated pacing. "When Rhonda handed that list of warehouses to Sandburg, I knew I had to keep a close eye on you. I followed you." 

Suddenly, he whirled and landed a fierce blow to Ellison's face. Head snapping to the right, the Sentinel fought the urge to black out. Shaking his head to clear the haze from his vision, he started, "Rafe, it wasn't you the bullpen was laughing about, it was Sa..." 

Another strike to his face; this time a hard strike to the right jaw. 

"Shut up, you cock-teasing bastard," growled the deranged cop. "I was so far beneath your notice that you didn't even realize it, did you? Why should you, it was only poor, invisible Rafe doing the following. I saw you and Sandburg walking into your building; he had his arm around you and you were leaning against him. I was so upset, I couldn't sleep last night. I tossed and turned, trying to tell myself that wasn't so unusual. God knows you two are always touching each other. That's all it was; it couldn't mean anything else because you were straight. So I followed you this afternoon when you dropped Sandburg off at Rainier, and I saw." Resentment growing in leaps and bounds, Rafe could barely get the words out. "I saw you two kissing, and I knew...knew you were just like the others after all." 

Murderous rage abruptly boiling over, Rafe rained blow after blow on Ellison's unprotected body. Finally, winded and panting, he stood back and surveyed his bleeding victim. 

Left eye starting to swell shut, Ellison once again tried reason. "You can't think you'll get away with this," he mumbled through smashed, swollen lips. 

"No; that's another sin to lay at your door." Fury spent for the moment, Rafe was once again calm. Looking ruefully at his bruised and cut knuckles, he stated, "Thanks to you and that bastard partner of yours, my cover's been blown. While you were still out, I tried going back to my place. The street outside my apartment was crawling with cops." 

Hope surged wildly. _Way to go, Blair!_ Ellison cheered inwardly. He had no doubts who was behind the swift actions. *Come and get me, babe. I know you can do it!* 

"It's almost one in the morning," Rafe said conversationally. "Because you took such a long nap, it's way too late to do anything else tonight. I want you wide awake and coherent so you'll understand why you need punishing." 

Giving a quick thanks that his Sentinel genes had reacted so strongly to whatever drug he'd been given, Ellison watched warily as Rafe approached him again. Astonishingly, the killer only reached out and ran a gentle hand down a bruised and tender cheek. 

"I'll see you in the morning, Jim," Rafe told him. "There's no way for you to get loose; even you can't break a set of handcuffs. I want you to spend the night hours reflecting on your past behavior. Who knows, maybe if you're sorry enough, I'll go easy on you." 

Ellison watched his fellow detective walk away. Once the man had vanished through a battered wooden door, the cop glanced upward. His arms were stretched full length over his head; police-issue handcuffs were draped over a small, but sturdy beam and locked securely about his wrists. Remembering how his lover had gotten out of his handcuffs on the North Star oil rig, Ellison gritted his teeth and tried to pull his right wrist out of its cuff. Only when his wrist was raw and bleeding did he give it up as a lost cause. Possibly anticipating such a move, Rafe had made sure to lock the cuffs extra tightly around his wrists. Refusing to admit defeat, Jim looked down. Each ankle had a cuff snapped around it, with the opposite cuff fastened securely around separate metal pipes embedded in the concrete floor. 

*Didn't want to take a chance of me kicking your murdering brains in, huh, Rafe?* Ellison thought dourly. Looking around himself for the first time, he noticed he was in a large, cluttered room. Piles of broken furniture lay scattered haphazardly across its floor, and at the end, a rickety wooden staircase led to another wooden door. Glancing around again, he saw that all the windows in the room had been boarded over from the outside. The stench of old kerosene and pine tar hung nauseatingly in the air. 

Even though it went against his nature and training to admit it, Ellison reached the reluctant conclusion that he was trapped there until rescue arrived. Trying his best not to remember the condition of Terence Langstrom's body, he sent out a silent prayer. 

_I know you're coming; but hurry, all right? Hurry and find me, Blair._

<<<>>>

A victorious cry split the early morning silence. "I knew it; I knew it! All right!" Sitting back in his chair at the table, Sandburg took off his glasses and rubbed tired, reddened eyes as he grinned triumphantly at his computer monitor. "We've got him, Jim. He won't be able to weasel his way out of this." 

Stretching to relieve stiff, aching muscles, he glanced over at the clock in the kitchen. *Seven AM...sixteen hours since Rafe took you, and twelve hours since I realized it.* Getting up to pour himself another cup of coffee, he mumbled, "Well, you've found a way to get that evidence, Sandburg; now all of you have to do is find which damn warehouse the bastard is using." 

Coffee mug in hand, Sandburg returned to the table and made himself sit back down. * I know you want a nice, long hot shower and about twelve hours of sleep,* he told his protesting body; *but that's not going to happen. Not while Jim is out there in the hands of a demented killer. No way. It's a bit too early to call that guy in Ottawa about the procedure I found, so we're just going to go back to those fucking warehouses until I can.* 

Looking out the balcony windows, he sent a silent promise to his absent lover. *Don't worry, I'm coming to get you. Hang on and wait for me. I'm coming to get you.* 

Eyes suddenly burning with unshed tears, Sandburg closed them for a moment. It was abruptly all too much--his terror over Ellison's predicament melded with his buried anger and humiliation from Banks' deeply wounding words and he started to shake. Wrapping his arms around himself, he laid his forehead on the table and fought off the incipient panic attack. *If Warren hadn't barged in when he did... Oh, god, Jim, I could've lost you since Simon wouldn't listen.* Forcibly regulating his respiration rate, Blair never felt himself slip into an restless sleep. 

<<>>>

The whisper of movement caught Ellison's Sentinel hearing and he whipped his head around. Moments later, the wooden door opened and Rafe entered, carrying a canvas bag. Even now he was dressed in designer clothes, an expensive pair of casual trousers with a matching polo shirt. Ellison shook his head at the surreal sight. 

Walking up to the bound man, Rafe dropped the bag and stood gazing at him. When he spoke, his voice was solicitous. "Did you have a good night, Jim?" 

Both shoulders burning from their forced, unnatural position, face throbbing from the serial killer's blows and his body actively aching in a dozen other places, Ellison was in no mood to cater to an insane killer's whims. 

"Why don't you just drop the act, you bastard?" he snarled, his temper acerbated by the long hours of confinement and helplessness. Jim Ellison had never learned to do helplessness well. "We both know what you're going to do." 

Incredibly, an expression of grief crossed the handsome face before him. "I'd hoped differently," Rafe said sorrowfully, shaking his head. "I'd really thought you might have realized what you've done and been sorry for it." Shaking his head once more, Rafe bent down and unzipped the canvas bag at his feet. Pulling something from its depths, he straightened. 

Ellison caught a sudden whiff of old leather. His blood froze. 

Uncoiling the long, rawhide whip, Rafe pronounced solemnly, "This is all your doing, Jim...remember that. I didn't want to do it, but you forced me." He drew back his arm. 

As the first fiery blow landed, Ellison thought desperately, *Find me, Blair. Please.* 

<<<>>>

The sound of a ringing telephone jarred Sandburg out of an uneasy doze. 

"Jim?" he mumbled, sitting up and wincing at the stab of pain in his lower back. The discomfort woke him all the way up and he lunged for the sofa and ringing telephone. "Sandburg," he answered breathlessly. *Oh, please; oh, please; oh, please...* 

"We haven't found him yet, Blair," came Joel Taggart's regretful tones. Even without the grad student asking, he'd known what Sandburg had been hoping the phone call meant. "I just called to see how you were doing, and to ask if you were planning on coming down this morning. I know you've got that museum opening in the afternoon." 

"Museum opening?" Blair gave a groan. "Oh, my god--is it Saturday already?" In all the stress of the last few hours, he'd forgotten what day it was. "Thanks for reminding me, Joel. Believe it or not, it had completely slipped my mind. That wouldn't go over very well with Dr. Buckner." Kick-starting his weary brain into action, he said excitedly, "I've done it, Joel; I've found a way to get some good, solid evidence against Rafe!" 

"How did you do that?" Joel asked curiously. Sudden suspicion in his voice, he queried, "Did you spend all night on your computer instead of resting as I told you?" 

"This thing is fantastic," Blair answered, not even hearing the latter part of Taggart's question. He glanced over at the kitchen clock. "It's about nine, now. I've got a phone call to make, then I have to shower and get dressed for the damn opening. I'll see you in two hours, tops." 

A sigh came over the phone. When Taggart spoke, however, all he said was, "All right; I'll see you then. For Jim's sake, Blair; drive carefully." 

"Will do. See you, Joel." 

Two and a half hours later, Joel Taggart was starting to become seriously concerned. Blair should've shown up at the PD at least thirty minutes before; the phone at the loft was not being picked up and his cell phone went unanswered. *What can that crazy kid be up to? Good Lord, with Jim being missing like this, it would be just like Blair to go tearing off by himself to search for him. Particularly since...* Again, Taggart wondered about the strange rift that had suddenly developed between Banks and Sandburg. Blair had looked like a whipped puppy whenever he'd looked at Banks the previous evening, and Simon had spent the entire night in his office in a boiling fury. Even the fact that Jim Ellison was missing, kidnapped by a rogue cop, didn't seem to account for his old friend's continuous bad temper. When Joel had tried to talk to him about it, however; he'd been curtly brushed off. 

A sudden burst of noise caught Taggart's ears and he looked up, sighing in relief. Blair Sandburg was blowing through the double doors like a minitornado. A look of grim determination on his face, the anthropologist came up to where Taggart was sitting at Rafe's desk and demanded, "Anything?" 

"Sorry, Blair." The Bomb Squad captain shook his head. "No one's seen Rafe since he left here yesterday afternoon, and he hasn't returned to his apartment." 

"What about the..." Blair dumped his ever-present backpack onto Ellison's desk. He gave a quick, grim smile, acknowledging the nods of greeting from the rest of the bullpen. Every one of the detectives who'd been present the night before was still busy at his desk. The low murmur of hushed, urgent conversations filled the large room. 

"At first light, I had the uniforms re-check all the warehouses," Taggart stated, knowing what the younger man was going to ask. "Still no sign of anybody at any of them." 

Running a hand through his hair, Sandburg said, "I know you all think I'm crazy, harping on them; but I honestly have this really weird feeling. Jim's in one of them; I just know it." 

"Blair," Joel began gently. "Remember, Rafe knows you're aware of the warehouses. He's probably abandoned the one he was using; he could be anywhere." 

"No, he's at a warehouse," Sandburg said stubbornly. "I just have to figure out which one." 

Seeing the exhaustion the younger man was trying to hide, Joel decided not to push it. "Where have you been, by the way? You said you'd be here half an hour ago. I was starting to worry you'd had an accident." 

"Sorry I didn't answer the cell, man," apologized Blair. "I've been downstairs talking with Kumar and it was really important." 

"Kumar?" Taggart looked at him quizzically. "Kumar Mazuaa, you mean?" Mazuaa was the Forensic DNA technician for the CPD. 

"Yeah." 

"Does Kumar have to do with finding a way to get solid evidence against Rafe?" 

"Oh, yeah!" Blood-shot sapphire eyes brightened. "I knew I'd heard something about a new development in forensic dentistry, so I went looking last night and I found it. Here's the article, man." 

Quickly scanning the print-out, Taggart felt his spirits rise a little. If this could actually work, the case against Rafe would be a slam-dunk. Looking up, Taggart declared, "This is great, Blair! But are you sure about this? You know the Internet is full of hoaxes." 

"After you hung up this morning, I called up to Ottawa and spoke with the guy who pioneered the technique. It's all on the level, Joel." 

"We need to show this to Simon," Taggart stated decisively. "Since it's a new test, he'll need to authorize the expenditure. He's in a meeting with Chief Warren, but he should be back any minute." 

Sandburg's face fell. Looking down, he said uncertainly, "Is...is that really necessary, Joel? I mean, Chief Warren said we could use every resource to stop Rafe. Captain Banks is probably too busy to take the time for this, and I wouldn't want to bother him." 

Taggart's concern shot through the roof. *This is not normal, not normal at all.* Usually, Blair would breeze right into Banks' office, not caring if the captain was busy or not--particularly if Jim's life or well-being were at stake. The care-free anthropologist also never called the captain by his title unless forcibly prompted. 

Feeling as though he was walking on eggshells, Joel said uneasily, "Simon is the captain in charge of this investigation, Blair. We really need his authorization. If you feel there's some reason you can't mention this to him..." 

"No, no." Blair heaved a sigh. "I hear what you're saying." 

At that moment, Banks strode into the bullpen. Barely two steps into the room, he demanded, "Well? Any progress?" 

Distantly wondering why he felt like Daniel approaching the lion's den, Taggart said, "We might actually have found a way to get physical evidence against Rafe." 

Simon grimaced. "I don't see how it's possible, Joel. Firstly, I don't believe Rafe is actually the one behind these murders. Secondly, there isn't any way to get evidence; Forensics found absolutely zip at the crime scenes." 

Discomfort rising at Banks' very blatant dismissal of Sandburg's presence, Joel stated, "Blair thinks our killer may have left us a DNA sample." 

Forced to acknowledge that the anthropologist was present, Banks scowled angrily. "There is no physical evidence...there is no DNA evidence." He still would not look at Sandburg. 

_For Jim._ Mentally girding himself, Sandburg spoke up. "Yes, there is." His voice was carefully non-antagonistic. An out and out quarrel with Banks would only get him tossed out of the bullpen and accomplish nothing. It might also cause resentment from the men of Major Crime; after all, Banks was their captain and he commanded a great deal of loyalty and respect. 

*I will not be corrected in my own bullpen by a hippie pervert! * "What fucking DNA evidence?!" shouted Banks. "This bastard is too smooth for that, remember? Hell, he hasn't left any hairs behind, let alone any semen or other bodily fluids!" 

"He's left us a sample," Sandburg said evenly, refusing to let himself be intimidated by the larger, furious man. "May I explain, Captain?" 

Banks stared at him, goggle-eyed with temper, for a few moments. "I don't have the time for this fantasy bullshit," he hissed. Stalking over toward the younger man, he deliberately let himself tower over him. Throwing out one long arm, he pointed to the bullpen doors. "Get out," he ordered coldly. "I'm working on evidence to capture the real killer. You might have conned Warren into sending my men on a wild goose chase, but I haven't fallen for your obfuscations." 

Though each cop present was wise enough to keep his eyes studiously downward, all conversation in the bullpen had suspiciously died. 

Bewildered and not understanding why Banks was displaying such atypical intransigence, Joel intervened, "Simon, wait; you have to listen to this!" 

Spinning on his heel until his back was to both men, Banks gave a loud growl of frustration. Dropping his head down to his chest, hands on hips, he stated tersely, "Five minutes. Five minutes only." 

Confused by the odd undercurrents swirling about the room, Taggart nonetheless kept his mouth closed and indicated for Sandburg to relay his information. 

Well aware of just how tenuous the captain's permission truly was, Blair cut straight to the heart of the matter. "The RCMP Bureau of Legal Dentistry has developed this new technique in dealing with bite marks on crime victims," he said briskly, striving to keep all emotion out of his voice. "It's a relatively simple test called Double Swabbing. First, the bite mark is swabbed, using a sterile swab dipped in sterile water; this will re-hydrate any saliva that might be present in the wound. Then, another sterile swab is rubbed over the bite to collect the saliva. That swab is then processed for DNA. The RCMP have reported success in bodies up to ten days post-mortem-Terence Langstrom has only been dead five days. Kumar, down in the DNA lab, says he's willing to call Ottawa for the exact procedure. All we need is your authorization." 

When several tense minutes had gone by without any reaction from Banks, Taggart ventured, "Simon?" 

Finally turning back around, Banks gave them both a hard look. "I can't believe," he declared icily, "that you really expect me to fall for this shit. Get out, Sandburg." 

"Simon!" protested an astonished Joel. "This test isn't some will-o'-wisp Blair just made up! He showed me the research article. This is real!" 

"Is it?" Banks inquired dryly. Shaking his head, he said quietly, "Even if this test exists, it has not been proven in, nor accepted by, any court in _this_ country. It would be a complete waste of limited PD resources to even attempt something the presiding judge will throw out the first day of the preliminary hearing." 

"Every now-accepted forensic test has been `new and unproved' at some point in time," argued Sandburg, clenching his fists to keep himself from raising his voice. "Why can't Rafe's case be the proving ground for this test?" 

Fixing the anthropologist with a frigid glare, Banks snarled, "I mean it, Sandburg, get your useless butt out of here. Unfortunately, as much as I would love to, I can't order you out of the PD since Chief Warren has insisted that you be allowed to foul up this case. However, I can get you out of my hair." 

Aghast, but knowing it wouldn't do any good to argue further, Taggart looked over at Sandburg and shook his head. As soon as Banks' office door had shut behind him, low, indistinct whispers sounded around the bullpen. It was difficult to tell who was looking more shell-shocked--the detectives and uniformed officers assigned to Major Crime or Blair Sandburg. Puzzled, semiangry looks on their faces, the cops flicked glances between Banks' office door and the pale, stunned grad student. 

If Banks had been paying attention to his squad's mood, he would've been shocked at the accusatory looks and mutters directed at him. 

Completely unaware of the supporting vibes sent his way, Blair turned to the flabbergasted Taggart. "Joel, we have to do something!" he urged insistently, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Running both hands through his hair, he pleaded, "Please. This is probably the only chance we'll ever have to get some real evidence against Rafe!" 

Mind spinning, looking down into huge, pleading eyes, Taggart said miserably, "I know, Blair; I know." Taking a deep breath, he physically and mentally squared his shoulders. What he was about to do was going to have severe ramifications in his long-standing friendship with Simon Banks. Knowing the entire bullpen was discreetly listening in, he reassured, "Don't worry. Those samples will be collected and processed." 

Momentarily closing his eyes in relief, Sandburg asked softly, "But what about Captain Banks denying the request? Doesn't he have to sign the requisition?" 

"A captain has to sign it," Joel retorted amiably. He gave a small grin. "You happen to know any?" 

While refusing to let the tears behind his eyes actually fall, Blair did give way to impulse and hugged the big man. "Thanks, Joel," he said huskily. "You have no idea how much this means to me." 

Incredibly, the older man gave him a wink as he was turning away. "Oh, I might have some idea." Waving over his shoulder, Taggart headed for his office. He knew he'd better make this phone call where there was no chance of Simon Banks overhearing. 

Blair stared after him in amazement, beginning to understand that his and Jim's secret was possibly not so secret, after all. *First Rhonda, then Ricardo, now Joel. Well, at least they seem to be taking the idea a hell of a lot better than Banks did.* Mentally shrugging the revelation off as unimportant for the present, Sandburg grabbed his backpack off Ellison's desk and hurried through the double doors. 

<<<>>>

Cursing soundly, Rafe stared at the limp figure hanging from the beam. Long, deep, welted lacerations criss-crossed the wide chest and broad back; blood ran in thin rivers down to the dusty floor. 

"God, Ellison; how the hell did you manage to survive the Rangers if you pass out after a harmless little whipping?" he grumbled. He stepped back, brows knitted in thought. "That is, if you really have passed out." 

Frowning at Ellison's vacant stare and slack-jawed appearance, Rafe nudged at the damaged chest with the haft of his whip. When there was no response, he grunted irritably and slapped the haft against a freely-bleeding wound. 

Ellison never flinched. 

A long, gusting sigh escaped the rogue detective. "Shit. This is going to take forever." 

<<<>>>

His attention more focused on his tumbling thoughts than on what he was currently doing, Blair only noticed the red light at the last possible minute. Slamming on his brakes, he let out a shuddering breath as the Corvair rocked on its axles from the sudden halt. *Watch what you're doing, asshole! Getting into an accident isn't going to help Jim and he will never forgive himself if an innocent person got hurt because you were too worried about him to pay attention.* 

A loud ring pulled him out of his self-castigation. The traffic light turned green as he grabbed his cell phone. Sending his car forward once more, he said tersely, "Sandburg." 

"It's me," replied Joel. "I wanted to let you know that Kumar is right now headed over to the morgue to collect the sample from Langstrom's body." 

The rotund captain decided to keep one detail from his anxious friend. Mazuaa had warned him that, if the sample from the bite mark was too small, it would have to be replicated before it could be graphed and PCR Gene Amplification was not a quick procedure. In that case, it might be a week or longer before he would have a definitive answer for them. 

Fully aware of just how much the other man had risked by assisting him, Blair struggled to express his gratitude properly. In the end, however, all he could squeeze out was a heart-felt, "Thanks, man." 

"No problem." Taggart's warm voice indicated he understood. 

A sudden thought crossed Sandburg's brain and he let out an involuntary groan. 

"Blair, is something wrong?" Joel demanded worriedly. "Where are you?" 

Sandburg rushed to reassure him. "I'm fine, Joel. I'm still in the car; just pulling into the parking lot at the museum." 

"What was that groan about?" 

"I just thought of something, that's all." Blair eased into a parking space and turned off the engine before continuing, "The DNA sample from Langstrom's body--if Kumar can even get one--is useless without a comparison sample." His voice held an abrupt despair. "Sure, we'll have the DNA signature of our killer, but we still won't be able to prove it's Rafe." 

"Oh, yes, we will," Taggart answered briskly. "We executed a search warrant for his apartment this morning. Forensics picked up his toothbrush and hair brush; they should be able to get some decent DNA from one of those for comparison." 

"Oh, man." Swallowing several times, Blair tried to speak through sudden tears. 

"You sound exhausted," chided Joel. "Why don't you just head home and at least try to get some rest? Surely, under the circumstances, the university will understand why you have to miss the opening." 

"I wish I could, but I can't." Exhaustion crashing down around him, the young anthropologist wondered how he was going to get through the long hours ahead. "Hal Buckner and Chancellor Edwards would have my balls if I miss this. Believe it or not, to the university big-wigs, this opening far outranks anything as unimportant as the kidnapping of a lowly cop." Cynicism written large in his tone, Sandburg said, "They would just point their noses in the air and tell me to leave the matter to the police. That I should concentrate on my proper duties. Besides," he admitted, "I would go crazy sitting around the loft and waiting for some news. I might as well stay busy." 

Sandburg tucked the phone under his chin and, reaching into a pocket in his backpack, took out a hair tie. Pulling his hair back, he went on, "I'm going to keep my cell phone turned on, though; I don't care if Chancellor Edwards does have a stroke. By the way, stay out of Banks' way, man. He's going to be livid when he finds out about the DNA thing. I'll give him the news; it's my responsibility." 

"Hey, kid; just you remember who the police captain is around here, all right?" It was said kindly, but firmly. "I knew exactly what I was doing, and I would do it again if necessary. Let me worry about Simon." 

A moment of silence passed then, just as Blair was about to say goodbye, the other man spoke again. 

"Blair, what's gone wrong between you and Simon?" Joel asked diffidently. "I've known him twenty-seven years and he's never been like this before! He's ignoring what the evidence is telling him; he's being deliberately insulting and vindictive toward a member of his team. Simon's not like that, Blair; not even when it involves a dirty cop." 

Abruptly wide awake once again, Sandburg answered brusquely, "You'd better ask Banks that one." Reaching for his backpack as he slid out of the car, Blair went on in a more moderate tone, "Sorry, Joel; I'm just tired. Look, it's probably better for you not to get involved, okay?" 

A short pause, then, "Just you be careful driving home." 

"I will. Bye, Joel." 

Across town, Joel Taggart hung up his office phone, a thoughtful look on his face. He had no intention of following Blair's advice, and there was no time like the present for bearding this particular lion. Whatever the difficulty between Sandburg and Banks, it had to be dealt with immediately. If the inexplicable feud continued, not only might it interfere with an ongoing murder investigation; it could result in Jim Ellison's death. 

<<<>>>

Half an hour later, Simon Banks and Joel Taggart were seated at a table in Banks' favorite Italian restaurant. By dint of some persuasive wrangling, finally bribing Simon by agreeing to pay for their lunch, Taggart had managed to coax the man out of the PD. _So far, so good,_ he judged. His plan was to ply his friend with large quantities of his favorite foods. Then, when Banks was borderline comatose from all the rich food, Joel would casually bring up the touchy subject of Blair Sandburg. 

It wasn't until Banks was starting on his huge serving of zabaglione, that Joel decided the time had arrived. Incredibly ill at ease, yet resolved to get to the bottom of the disruptive atmosphere, he took a bite of his gelato. "Simon, could I ask you something?" 

"Sure." Banks gave him a quizzical look. "You don't normally ask; it must be serious." He gave a half-grin which faded at the grave expression on the usually cheerful face. 

"It is." Mentally crossing his fingers, Taggart plunged in. "Why are you..." He changed his mind in mid-sentence. *No need to put him on the defensive. Leave the question open-ended.* "Has Blair done something to anger you?" 

Banks' face darkened. Pushing aside his unfinished dessert, he grabbed his coffee cup and drank deeply. "As soon as this damn case is finished, once Jim's back, I'm pulling that fucking little hippie's ride-along! I don't care how much, or how loudly, Warren and Ellison will yell about it." He shook his head. "Not that I think Jim's going to complain too much once he hears what I have to tell him." 

Taggart stared at him, open-mouthed. 

Now that he'd started, Simon couldn't seem to stop. "I'm going to have a long talk with Jim about his supposed good friend and roommate," Banks said furiously. "If he only knew what that sick fuck's been doing behind his back..." Trailing off, Simon made a sound of utter disgust. 

Bleakly, Joel realized he finally had the reason behind Banks' uncharacteristic behavior. He'd wondered how his old friend would react to a cop with a gay lifestyle; now it appeared he had his answer. Trouble was, Banks seemed to believe it was all one-sided. Joel debated with himself, wondering just how much of Ellison's and Sandburg's private lives he could--or should-- reveal. After all, he really only had his own suspicions to go by; neither Jim nor Blair had ever confided in him about a change in their relationship. 

"Simon," he began tentatively, "I'm not so certain you should attempt to get between Jim and Blair. In fact, if I were you, I would most certainly think twice about it. I can't believe you're actually listening to locker room gossip." 

Full of sanctimonious purpose, Banks brushed aside that piece of sage advice. _Once Joel hears this, he'll never give Sandburg the time of day again._ He glanced around then, leaning toward the other man, said intently, "This isn't locker room gossip. Sandburg is a queer." Having delivered the coup detat, Banks sank back against his chair, smugly satisfied. 

"If that's really true, what makes you think Jim isn't already aware? How do you know, by the way?" 

"Huh?" Banks was confused, his temper started to fray around the edges. Taggart hadn't reacted the way Banks had been certain he would, and Simon felt an odd tingle of betrayal that his closest friend insisted on taking the reasonable approach. 

"How do I know?" he repeated irritably. "I've been suspicious of the little bastard for months; ever since they came back from that oil rig, actually. The way Sandburg behaved during the Colonel Oliver affair was damn near an admission of guilt right there. Then, he goes all to pieces yesterday evening when this maniac grabs Jim. In my office last evening, when he realized I was on to him, he finally confessed to it. He says he loves Jim." A nauseated expression crossed his face. "Can you believe that bullshit? Faggots don't know how to love." 

Simon heaved a breath and shook his head. "As for Jim already being aware of it, give me a break! Can you honestly see him putting up with that sort of degenerate behavior, especially when it's directed at him? The Jim Ellison I know would break Sandburg into pieces so tiny, we'd never find them all." 

Pushing back from the table, Banks finished, "You know I normally wouldn't interfere with a friend's personal life, but there's another factor to consider here. If I guessed about Sandburg, sooner or later, someone else will. That sort of rumor will just fly around the PD. It'll destroy Jim's career, and may end up getting him very dead from lack of back-up sometime. He'll be guilty by association, you know that. If Jim finds out I knew about this sordid mess but didn't warn him, he'll be pissed as all hell at me. As both his captain and his friend, I can't act in any other way and keep my conscience clear." 

He started for the rest room, calling over his shoulder, "I'll only be a few minutes, Joel. Meet you out front." 

Taggart signaled to the waiter to bring over their check. Handing the man his credit card, he despondently wondered: *How are we supposed to get Jim back alive and stop Rafe, when the man who has to authorize all the plans, won't speak with the man who always comes up with the most brilliant ones?* 

<<<>>>

Gritting his teeth against the agony in his shoulders and back, Ellison again attempted to free a wrist from its encircling cuff. However, as fiercely as he tugged and pulled, the restraining cuffs refused to release his swollen and torn wrists. Blood ran in steady streams down his arms to mix with the blood from his lacerated back and chest. 

When he'd aroused from his zone, Rafe had been gone. Waves of fiery pain flooded him, coming from his over-stretched shoulder muscles, as much as from his abused chest and back. Panting, he desperately fought to control his pain dial, to somehow reduce his awareness of his injuries. While he continued to have absolute faith that Blair was going to find him, he'd regretfully concluded that Sandburg might arrive too late to find him alive. The thought that his young, impressionable lover could find his mangled, twisted corpse terrified Ellison. Personal ego aside, he knew--to the bottom of his soul--that such a discovery would completely destroy Blair. The Sentinel vowed to himself that he would not let his Guide find him dead in that way...broken, mutilated, all traces of humanity ripped away. 

He would have to find some way to taunt Rafe into killing him outright. Only lamenting his death because it would separate him from his lover, Ellison set about devising a way to hasten the murderer's plans. It was obvious Rafe meant to kill him; Ellison was just determined to force him to abandon the slower means for the quicker. 

_I'm so sorry, Blair._ Jim sent his heart-felt expression of sorrow out into the ether. _But it's better this way, babe; better for you, better for me._

<<<>>>

Fumbling shut the loft door, Sandburg turned and, leaning wearily against the door, kicked his shoes off. Too exhausted to care about how many house rules he was breaking, he let his backpack slide to the floor beside him. 

"Sorry, man," he mumbled in automatic apology. "I'll pick them up in a minute, okay?" 

His words echoed back to him in the darkened, deserted loft. Realizing what he'd done, Blair felt his eyes burn with sudden, stinging tears as his heart twisted in his chest. 

"Oh, god, Jim." Uncaring of the tears streaming down his cheeks, he moaned, "I'm sorry, man; I'm so sorry. I should've found you by now. Instead, what do I do? I spend hours at a fucking museum opening, answering fucking stupid questions from fucking rich bastards who wouldn't care--if they even knew--that you were lost and hurt somewhere." 

Over-tired, over-stressed, Sandburg continued his scathing self-assault. "Do you know what your adoring lover's been doing while you were probably being tortured Jim?" Voice thick with bitter self-loathing, the grad student answered himself. "I've spend the last..." A quick glance at the kitchen clock and he spat out, "...five hours playing nice to a room full of people with more money than brains, and a bunch of stuffed-shirt academics who consider anyone below a Ph.D. level to be a mentally-retarded moron. 

"And you know what, Jim? I am a moron; here I am, ABD and I _still_ can't figure out where you are. It's been almost thirty fucking hours, man! Naomi should've drowned me at birth; saved the world from my stui..." 

Trailing off in mid-word, Blair momentarily lost the ability to breathe. _Mother,_ he thought in wild, joyous exhilaration. *That's it--Rafe's mother is the fucking missing piece!* 

Scooping up his backpack, Sandburg tore out the door. The echoes of its slamming could still be heard as he sped the Corvair out of the parking lot and toward the police station.  
<<<>>>

Rubbing the heels of his palms into reddened, burning eyes, Joel Taggart sank back against his chair, fighting the urge to swear. Although he had gone home late the previous night, Joel had been unable to sleep and so had returned to the PD by four that Saturday morning. *Not as young as you used to be, Joel,* he thought resignedly. *A few hours without sleep practically turns you into a useless wreck now.* He repeated the prayer that had become his mantra. _Please, Lord, let us find Jim alive. For his sake, and for Blair's._

Both Jim Ellison and his captor seemed to have vanished into thin air. Although no one had said anything, hope was dwindling fast in the bullpen. Everyone was grimly aware of the fact that, the longer it took to find Ellison, the less chance there was of finding him alive, let alone, uninjured. 

Seated once again at Rafe's desk, Taggart swallowed a deep yawn. Taking a quick look around, he noticed that everyone seemed to be in the same condition as he; exhausted faces and blood-shot eyes appeared to be the current bullpen vogue. Even the normally dapper Hanson had abandoned his suit coat and tie, choosing to unbutton his designer shirt and roll up its sleeves. 

The detectives and uniformed officers were giving Simon Banks a wide berth. To his intense sorrow, Taggart had noticed them going out of their way to avoid interacting with him any more than absolutely necessary. When the Major Crime captain had barked out an order or requested information, their response had been swift and professional; but as soon as he'd returned to his office, the dark looks and sullen muttering would start up again. Joel knew he could not blame them; although he now knew the reason for Banks' behavior, he could not condone it. 

Banks had noticed none of the signs of growing discontent. Remaining in his office for the most part, he feverishly went over and over the files of the four murders. With an almost maniacal zeal, he was determined to find the answer as to who was really behind the murders and Jim Ellison's disappearance; to prove to all and sundry just what sort of person Blair Sandburg truly was. Then, armed with that information, he would be able to go to Warren and finally get the hippie punk barred from the PD for all time. 

Tiredly climbing to his feet, Taggart was halted in mid-rise by a sudden cacophony in the hallway outside Major Crime. Seconds later, a jubilant Blair Sandburg blew through the double doors. 

"I know where Jim is!" 

The bullpen came to its collective feet; excited voices shouted impatient questions at the flushed grad student. 

Gaping at the wide, ecstatic smile on Sandburg's weary face, Joel had just opened his mouth to make his own queries when the door to Banks' office flew open. Framed in the doorway, a hopeful look on his face, the captain eagerly demanded, "Is it Jim? Is he all right?" 

Then he spotted Sandburg and a thunderous expression came over him. "What the fuck do you want now?" he growled, no longer even attempting to hide his animosity. 

Too full of joy at having finally figured out where his lover was being held to pay him much attention, Blair repeated, "I know where Jim is, which warehouse." 

Immediately throwing up a hand to halt Banks' oncoming tirade, Joel patiently reminded the elated young man, "Blair, we checked those warehouses, remember? No one's been in or out of them in years." 

Shaking his head so hard his hair flew around his face, Sandburg corrected, "The uniforms found nothing to indicate someone had been near them. That doesn't necessarily mean they are deserted." Turning to Ricardo and the other uniformed officers present, he apologized, "I'm not calling you guys incompetent, or anything like that. Everyone one of you are great cops, and I know you looked extra hard because of Jim." 

"Why the hell are you people encouraging him?!" shouted Banks. "For god's sake, just..." 

"Let him talk." 

Banks' face froze in a parody of shock. The icy order had come from Joel Taggart. 

Trying to order his tumbling thoughts, Sandburg had barely noticed the by-play. "Remember how I kept harping on that the answer was in that list of warehouses, but that it wouldn't come to me?" 

The bullpen nodded as one. 

"Well, it finally struck me a few minutes ago. That one warehouse-- fourth or fifth on the list--what's its address?" 

Taggart had the list memorized. "Thomas and Peyton Pine Products?" he checked. When Blair nodded excitedly, he recited, "It's at 10036 Burnett Avenue. The last registered owner is a John Patrick." 

"There you have it!" Sandburg looked around triumphantly. 

Seeing the confused looks, the anthropologist forced himself to slow down and explain. "Rafe's first job was at a bar owned by someone named John Patrick. His mother's maiden name was Burnett. He bought the warehouse on Burnett probably because of its personal significance, and he used the name of a former employer to do so." 

"Oh, my god," breathed Matthews. The rest of the bullpen looked equally as shocked. 

Everyone but Banks, that is. He simply looked furious. 

"I have never heard a more misleading, juvenile argument in my entire life!" Giving the bullpen a cold glare, he commanded, "No one is to go chasing this mirage, do you hear me?" Ignoring the tight, angry looks, he went on, "I'm going to be in my office. If someone comes up with an _intelligent_ theory, I'm more than willing to listen." 

He ostentatiously closed his office door behind him. 

Having expected just such a response from Banks, Sandburg was not unduly discouraged. He looked over at Taggart and asked, "Where's Chief Warren?" 

_Simon, old friend, I'm sorry._ Glancing down at his watch, Taggart said, "He's dining with Mayor Baxter and Councilwoman Kendricks tonight. It's just going on eight-thirty; they're probably still at cocktails." He reached for the phone on Brown's desk. 

Looking over at the silently-watching police officers, Blair said earnestly, "I'm sorry, guys. I'm honestly not trying to over-ride Captain Banks' authority. He's in charge of Major Crime, and I respect that. I'm going to ask Chief Warren if he'll let me use officers from another department so you won't have to choose between your captain and me. But," firming his tone, Sandburg declared, "I will use any means at my disposal to get Jim back." 

A brief second of silence, then Matthews spoke up from his desk. "We're not choosing between Banks and you, kid." He climbed to his feet and looked around at his fellow officers. "We're choosing to save Ellison and stop a murdering bastard." Jerking his head toward the double doors, he said, "Let's go get your partner." 

Hanson was close on his heels. 

Putting down the phone and gathering up his coat, Taggart gestured at two uniformed officers. "Merriweather, you and Zablonsky are with us. The rest of you, stay here in case someone spots Rafe and calls it in. Let me know immediately if something comes up." 

He started for the double doors, then stopped and looked back at a seemingly frozen Sandburg. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he inquired with a grin. 

Catching his mental breath, Sandburg almost teleported out the doors. _I'm coming, Jim! I'm coming!_

<<<>>>

Long hours ticked by with tortuous slowness. Unable to see outside to gauge the passage of time, Ellison had only his own internal clock to go by. It seemed to him that another night had fallen, but he couldn't be sure. Weakened from thirst, hunger and the two vicious beatings, his senses were starting to play tricks on him. Time and again, he'd startled awake from a painfilled, restless doze convinced he'd heard Blair calling his name. Each time, he'd eagerly sent out his senses, knowing that his lover must be right outside for he was sure he could smell that delicious, woodsy aroma that always meant Blair to him. Time and again, his hopes had been dashed when the beloved face had failed to appear. 

Finally, his sensitive hearing caught the rustle of movement in another part of the warehouse. Mouth tightening, his stomach clenched in agonized anticipation of the pain to come. 

Rafe came through the same wooden door he'd always used. Dressed in dark trousers and a light blue shirt, he was carrying two medium-sized suitcases. Without even glancing at his captive, he set the suitcases down just inside the room and left again. He reappeared moments later, this time lugging a large, awkwardly-shaped bundle. This, he brought over and dropped on the floor at Ellison's feet. 

Reminding himself of his vow to somehow force Rafe into killing him quickly, Ellison sneered, "Going somewhere, headcase?" 

Incredibly, Rafe just stood there, shaking his head; a small smile graced his lips. "Won't work, Jim," he said equably. "I know what you're up to; you think that if you can get me mad enough, I'll just put a bullet through your brain and end everything now. Well, sorry to disappoint you, my love, but that's not going to happen. You're going to take your punishment just as you deserve." 

Spine crawling at the madman's use of the endearment, the Sentinel growled, "Don't call me that!" 

"What, don't call you `my love'?" Rafe leaned his shoulder against a supporting beam off to Ellison's right. "You are, you know. Even though you've hurt me dreadfully, I still love you. I need you to know that." 

"You don't even know what the fuck love is!" 

"I suppose you do? Is that what you call what you have with Sandburg...love? I've got a newsflash for you, Jim; he doesn't love you; his kind don't know how to love. They only know how to use; trust me on this, I've learned it from bitter experience. You're good for free room and board, and an occasional fuck on the side, but as soon as Sandburg has that Ph.D., he'll be gone, out of here. But me--me, I would've loved you forever." 

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" spit out Ellison. The casually cruel words struck fiercely at a deeply-hidden part of him. "It's you that doesn't know how to love, you sick freak." 

"Sticks and stones, Jim; sticks and stones." Settling himself more comfortably against the beam, the killer gazed at him benevolently. "For your information, I do know how to love. I was in love before, while I was still just a kid. He meant the world to me, but..." Rafe gave a quick laugh and shook his head. "I should've listened to my old man. He might've been a hopeless alcoholic whose only steady job was beating his wife and kid, but at least he knew what he was talking about. 

"I'm going to tell you something, Jim; something that I've never told another soul," Rafe declared suddenly. "Maybe then you'll understand why I have to do this. 

"The whole time I was growing up, I don't think I ever saw my dad sober. If he wasn't out at a bar drinking his liver to death; he was at home, guzzling bottle after bottle of cheap whiskey. The entire damn apartment smelled like rotgut. Of course, the place wasn't that big to begin with; when you live in a tenement, you don't have much space to call your own." 

Shaking his head again, Rafe went on, "He had a pattern, my old man: he'd get fired from his latest dead-end job, he'd go out to the bar to drown his sorrows, then he'd come home and beat the shit out of my mother and me. Once, when I was about six, I distinctly remember asking her why we just couldn't leave him. Oh, the look of horror on her face!" Rafe barked another laugh. "The stupid bitch didn't have the guts to walk out, so she condemned us both to being his punching bags. I tried running away a few times, but they always found me and sent me back. 

"Dad never held a job for longer than a month or two, but it was never _his_ fault that he got fired. Oh, no; he always had the same, damn excuse: "They fired me because of where I come from." He was forever telling me that the rest of the world considered people from the slums to be so much street-trash and not worth a decent job, or the chance at a nice life. I just figured it was him blowing hot air as usual...that is, until I met John Patrick. 

"I walked into his bar in Georgetown in October, 1981. I'd moved out of my parents' apartment as soon as I'd graduated from high school and had started working construction. But, it was a bad summer for business, followed by a bad autumn; I got laid off with about twenty other guys. So I took a bus into a nice part of Georgetown, entered the first fancy bar I saw and begged the owner to give me a job, any job. It wasn't until I'd been working there a couple of months that I found out the only reason John had taken me on was because he'd wanted a piece of my ass. By that time, I didn't care. 

"John looked a bit like you, Jim--big, muscular and drop-dead handsome. He was rolling in the money; he owned four bars and restaurants all through the DC area. Can you imagine how I felt? He could've had any guy he wanted, but he chose me. John wanted poor, skinny me who only had one change of clothes to his name." A reminiscent smile on his face, Rafe was clearly re-living happier times. 

"He called me Jeff--told me that David was just some street punk I didn't need anymore. Pretty soon, there was no one working at the bar who even knew that wasn't my given name. I learned how to dress and talk better by observing John. After we'd been going together a few months, he even gave me a key to his townhouse. Of course, I was always supposed to call before coming over. I started taking classes at the local community college; I wanted to get into law school and make him proud of me. Oh, sure, we had our rough spots--what couple doesn't? It bothered me a bit that he'd never take me to any of the fancy parties I knew he'd been invited to, that he wouldn't let me move in with him, that he never acknowledged me to his friends who came into the bar. He always had an answer, however; John told me that if his family ever found out that he was gay, it would literally kill his father, who was elderly and had a bad heart. Although I had never loved my father, I knew there were people who did, so I accepted it." The dreamy smile vanished, replaced by a look of weary pain. "I was young, naive and so much in love; I would've believed anything he told me. I did believe it...for almost two years." 

Rafe looked over at Ellison and gave an eerie smile. Shivering involuntarily at the utter insanity it revealed, the injured cop could only listen as the mad killer purged himself. "One April evening, my class had been canceled because the instructor became ill. So I headed over to John's; I thought we could make a night of it. It wasn't until I'd parked and was walking up to his door that I remembered that I'd hadn't let him know I was coming over. But I was sure it didn't matter; John had told me he'd be home by himself all evening. 

"I used my key to open his door; once I got inside, I realized he had a visitor, a woman. I was just turning to leave again, when I heard the woman say my name. My curiosity was aroused, so I decided to listen in." Smile turning grim, Rafe said, "To make a long story short, I found out the woman was his sister and that his family knew damn well he was gay. She'd only mentioned me because she'd heard a rumor that he'd been seeing a guy named Jeff, and she wanted to know why John had never brought me around to meet them." 

Ellison swallowed the abrupt surge of pity. He could guess what had happened next. 

"John said--and I quote--"What, bring that piece of slum trash into decent Washington society? You must be joking! The only reason I'm keeping him around is because he's got a great ass and gives fantastic head. Dress him up all you want, he'll never be anything but another piece of dirt from the streets." Then he laughed and told her not to worry. He planned on getting rid of `the problem' soon, anyway; a blond lawyer had recently caught his eye and this guy, at least, was respectable enough to be seen with in polite society. 

"I was so proud of myself, Jim. I didn't get angry; I didn't storm in and start flinging accusations around like a drama queen. Oh, no, all I did was go back to my car, drive to the nearest convenience store and call him. I didn't let on that I'd overheard him and his sister; I only told him that class had gotten out early and that I was on my way. Then I drove back to his place; I got there just as his sister was leaving. He let me in and told me to go take a shower while he fixed us some drinks. When he came into the bedroom with them, I emptied the entire chamber of his .32 revolver into his smiling, lying face." 

Rafe straightened from his slouch and shrugged nonchalantly. "Even as young as I was, I knew I'd better get out of there. I also knew I'd be the first one the police would look for, so I went over to the bar where I worked, broke in and stole my personnel file. The cops might find out that I'd worked there, but without the file, they didn't have my real name and no way to locate me. I wasn't stupid, however; within five hours of the shooting, I'd packed and was on a plane heading to San Francisco. I wanted to start a new life. 

"I wanted a new life, Jim, but somehow, they always seemed to find out about my background." For an instant, a troubled look of childish bewilderment came into the hazel eyes. "I wouldn't tell them, of course, but time after time, every man I tried to date would just dump me flat, without any warning. When it happened the third time, a week or so before I started the police academy, I finally figured out why. The bastard denied it was because he thought he was too good for me; he claimed it was because we weren't compatible. But I knew differently. 

"I went home, and I thought long and hard about what to do. The more I thought, the more determined I became that I wouldn't let anyone treat me like dirt again; and that if someone tried to do so, I should make him pay for it. It occurred to me that John had gotten off far too easily for his error; he hadn't had time to ponder on his mistake and regret it. So the next night, I waited for Brad to leave his work and then I grabbed him in the parking garage. Once it was all over, I realized my assumption had been correct: Making people see their mistakes was a much more effective solution to the problem. Brad had admitted his wrongdoing before he died. 

"You will, too, Jim." Giving Ellison a bright smile, Rafe squatted down next to the bundle on the floor. Throwing aside a piece of the faded green cloth, he said, "The tarp is for later; it'll help me carry you out of here. You're a big guy, you know; I damn near broke my back dragging you in and getting you set!" He stood up, gripping his new weapon. 

Mouth drying, Ellison couldn't take his eyes off the heavy, wooden bat Rafe was casually whipping about. 

"Now, I don't intend to kill you with this, so don't worry that I'm going to aim for your head." 

Having given that bizarre reassurance, Rafe drew the bat back over his shoulder and swung. The sickening crunch of splintering bone mingled with Ellison's agonized groan. 

<<<>>>

Driving as swiftly as he dared, Taggart led the rescue party to the warehouse on Burnett Avenue. Alerted by the police dispatcher, the two uniformed officers stationed outside the derelict building were standing by their squad car and waiting when the three other vehicles pulled up. 

Coming up to Taggart as he got out of his unmarked car, one of the officers said, "What's this all about, Captain? Ellison can't be in there; that door is so rusted and rotted, it'd fall apart if you tried to use it. Go see for yourself!" 

Sandburg jumped in before Taggart could open his mouth. Recognizing the senior patrol officer, he said hurriedly, "Officer Henderson, we believe you; there's no need for us to check the door. But what about another door? This is a warehouse, surely there's more than one door--maybe that door is in better shape." 

Henderson shook his head. "There's no other door." 

"Well, yeah, there is," put in Adams, the younger of the pair. Having been out of the academy less than four months, he was still ridiculously starryeyed over his job. "But don't worry, no one could be using it." 

Everyone stared at the young officer, including his thunder-struck partner. It was he who recovered first. 

"I thought you told me there wasn't another door!" Henderson bellowed. 

"You told me to look around back for usable doors." Adams looked unsure, confused as to why he was suddenly the center of attention. "Well, this door can't be used. It's locked." 

"How the hell do you know it's locked?" demanded Matthews, brows lowering. 

"Because I saw the new deadbolt!" the rookie explained victoriously. 

A stunned silence fell...but not for long. 

"You fucking idiot!" hissed an enraged Sandburg. "Do you mean you've known since last night there was another door into that warehouse and you didn't report it?!" Darting forward, he grabbed the startled officer by his lapels and threw him against the side of Taggart's car. "Jim could've been found last night if you hadn't been so goddamned stupid! If anything's happened to him--if he's been hurt because you're too fucking ignorant to wipe your own ass..." Words failed the furious Guide. 

Looking around, wide-eyed and shocked, Adams discovered no rescue would be forthcoming. The older, more senior police officers all wore a look of supreme disgust. Even the always good-tempered Taggart seemed to be struggling to hold back his anger. 

"How the hell did this moron ever pass the Academy?" Zablonsky wondered aloud. His partner just snorted. 

"I'll look into that later." Looking over at the hapless rookie, Taggart said, "Officer Adams, you are hereby relieved of all duty until such time as a review board can convene to discuss your failure to follow proper police procedure. Is that understood?" The quiet voice was filled with a biting contempt. "Take your squad car and return to Central. Inform your Watch Commander that I'll be in to speak with him." 

"Yes, sir," mumbled Adams. Straightening from where he'd been slumped against the car door, face flushed with mortification, he headed for the car. 

Henderson watched him go, face tight with controlled anger. Turning to Taggart, he said formally, "I take full responsibility for the situation, Captain. I should've checked for myself, instead of just taking his word." 

Again, Sandburg got in the first word. "Don't be ridiculous," he said curtly. "Adams is a fully-qualified police officer; you're his trainer, not his babysitter." 

His skin itched and felt as though it were on fire; his respiration was shallow and uneven. _Jim's in there; I just know it!_ Looking around wildly, Sandburg snapped, "Why the hell are we still standing around out here?! We need to get Jim out of there before Rafe kills him!" He started toward the ruined door. 

He'd only gone a couple steps before his upper arm was captured in a strong grip. Glaring up at Matthews, the grad student tried to jerk his arm free but was unable to break the larger man's hold. 

"Let me go, damn it!" Again, he tried to pull his arm loose. "Let me go...I need to save Jim!" 

"Art's right, Blair," Joel told him firmly. Looking straight into the raging azure eyes, he stated, "We need to work out a plan, first. If we go bursting in there, helter-skelter, we could end up spooking Rafe into doing something drastic. You don't want that; we don't want that. So, for Jim's sake, try to hang on a little longer and let us work out a way to get into that place unnoticed." 

Trembling fiercely with his need to move, Sandburg swallowed audibly and gave a jerky nod. He knew Joel made perfect, logical sense; at this point in time, however, logic was placing a far second behind the raging need to save his Sentinel. Voice raw and harsh with the effort it took to restrain himself, he pleaded, "Just hurry, okay? I understand, I really do, but please, just do it fast, all right? I-I don't have such a good feeling right now." *That's the understatement of the millennia, Sandburg,* he thought feverishly. The urge to storm the warehouse was almost beyond rational control. 

Letting go of the younger man, Matthews patted him on the right cheek, saying, "Just a couple more minutes, kid. Promise." 

Everyone's attention turning to him, Joel ordered, "Matthews, you and Hanson take the lock-breaker to break that deadbolt and go in that way. Henderson, Merriweather and Zablonsky, I want you guys to see if there's any way of prying loose a few of those window boards and getting in through a window. Blair and I will see if we can't use the broken front door." Looking around and seeing the understanding nods, he commanded briskly, "Let's go then...and people," he continued, pulling his weapon, "...remember that David Rafe has already killed four men. Cop or not, he is not to be given the chance to make it five. Understood?" 

Faces grim and determined, the other cops pulled their guns and sprinted for their assigned sections of the warehouse. 

Taking a deep breath to steady his thrumming nerves, Taggart turned to the frantic grad student. "All right, Blair. We're ready to go now, but first I need you to promise me something." 

Intrigued despite himself, Blair inquired, "What's that, Joel?" 

"I want you to promise me that, no matter what, you'll stay behind me and let me go into a room first. I want to get Jim back just as much as you do, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to chance your safety. I don't want to be the one who has to tell Jim that, "Yeah, we got you out, but so sorry, we lost Blair." So for my sake, for Jim's sake; let me go first, all right?" 

In spite of the circumstances, Blair felt a chuckle slip out. "Cops," he grumbled good-naturedly. "What, are you all born with that damn overprotective gene?" 

Taggart gave a half-grin, but his brown eyes remained serious. "Could be. Do I have your promise?" 

Blair met his eyes steadily. "Yes." 

"Okay, then; let's go." Once again, Taggart led the way. This time it was over to the damaged, listing main door of the old warehouse. 

On closer inspection, the large, double doors were discovered to be hanging completely off the left set of rusted-through hinges. Creaking perilously in the cool night air, the doors rested uneasily against one rotted, pitted jamb. Joel gestured at Sandburg to move up next to him. Lifting together, they slowly pivoted the moldy door to create a gap large enough for them to slip through. Once inside, the blackness seemed to swallow them up. 

"I should've brought a flashlight," whispered Taggart. His voice was heavy with chagrin. 

"Just a sec," Sandburg whispered back. There was the muted sound of a zipper being pulled then, moments later, he hissed in triumph. "Here you go, man." 

Joel felt the cool brush of metal against his hand. Turning the small flashlight on, he pointed its light downward at the floor. "Is there anything you don't carry in that backpack?" he asked, shaking his head in wonderment. 

"Jim made me start carrying a flashlight because the Corvair likes to break down at night," explained the grinning anthropologist. "This way, I can see to change a tire, fix a belt, or whatever." 

The Bomb Squad captain quickly shone the small light around. Finding they were in a corridor, he said, "Follow me." 

Tensely, they slowly moved down the dark passage. Once again on the verge of hyperventilation, Sandburg had to fight with himself not to push past the older man and just run, pell-mell, until he found his missing lover. Breath coming in harsh, gasping pants, he placed himself tightly against Taggart's back. Slowly, ever so slowly that it might have been an hallucination, the two men became aware of a small amount of light oozing raggedly from under a door at the far end of the hallway. 

Coming up to the portal, Taggart silently handed the flashlight back to Sandburg. Then, leaning over, he placed an ear against the chipped wood and listened intently. Straightening, he looked over his shoulder and met questioning eyes. He nodded grimly. 

Clenching his fists, Blair watched as the cop slowly, cautiously turned the door knob until the latch clicked free. The sudden noise in the all-enveloping silence sounded like a bomb going off to the two anxious men. Holding his breath, Taggart waited for several pulse-pounding moments. When there was no reaction, he carefully pushed the door open 

Directly in front of Taggart, Blair saw a short flight of wobbly wooden steps leading downward. Gingerly testing the first riser with one foot, Taggart started to ease his way down. Preparing to follow, Blair heard Joel suddenly catch his breath. He looked past Taggart to see what had alarmed the big man. 

Blair felt himself literally stop breathing. 

Bright, naked bulbs harshly illuminated the horrific scene. Ellison hung limply in his shackles, blood flowing freely down his arms, chest and back. Deep, jagged wounds could be seen beneath the blood. Both wrists and ankles were raw and abraded; the flesh of those areas had ballooned up around the restraining handcuffs. Huge, purple contusions covered his torso and distorted left arm from shoulder to fingers. The shoulder, itself, was twisted and rested at an odd angle. The cop's right knee was also deformed and massively swollen. It was obvious they had both been dislocated, if not broken. 

The reason for the fractures was instantly clear to the temporarily speechless onlookers. Breathing heavily, Rafe again raised the large, wooden bat in preparation for another blow. 

Taggart recovered his voice first. Weapon pointed steadily at the rogue cop, he shouted, "Police! Drop it!" 

Head snapping to his right, Rafe stared up at the newcomer out of wide, shocked eyes. Another noise made him jerk his eyes downward. Guns drawn, Matthews and Hanson entered the room through a battered wooden door at the foot of the stairs. Loud splintering sounds spun the killer around again; guns clearly visible in their hands, the three patrol officers stood poised and ready at three different windows. Never lowering the bat from its striking position, Rafe once again looked back up at Taggart. 

"I mean it, Rafe. Drop the bat, and drop it now," Taggart ordered brusquely. 

For one, elongated moment, the deadly tableau held. Then, catching sight of the ashen-faced anthropologist behind the larger Taggart, Rafe's hazel eyes narrowed and flared with unalloyed hatred. In the blink of an eye, he whirled, bringing the bat scything downward toward Ellison's unprotected head. 

Blair's agonized scream of denial was drowned out by the concussive roar of a gun being fired. 

Abruptly staggering, bat held comically over his head, Rafe started to turn as a large, red blossom spread across the back of his pristine shirt. The stagger became an uncoordinated stumble. Tripping clumsily over a large pile of old furniture, the insane man tumbled and crashed into it. When he rolled to a rest on the filthy concrete floor, the hazel eyes were fixed and staring. 

Operating purely on instinct, Sandburg began to brush past Taggart, but the older man stuck out his arm, blocking him. "Wait a minute, Blair." 

Below them, as the three uniforms were climbing in their respective windows, Hanson cautiously approached the downed murderer. Squatting beside him, he reached out and touched the pulse point in Rafe's neck. Several taut minutes later, he looked up and shook his head. "He's gone," the detective announced, somewhat unnecessarily. 

Sandburg was down the crumbling wooden steps and over to Ellison before anyone really saw him move. 

"Jim," he whispered, anguished. "Oh, god, Jim." He reached out toward Ellison; his hands hovered near, but didn't touch, the welted chest. Afraid to touch, terrified of causing more hurt, he could only beg, "Get him down, please. Oh, somebody, please get him down from there!" 

"Hang on, kid; we're working on it," came Matthews' reassuring voice. He drew out his set of handcuffs keys from his trouser pocket and unlocked the cuffs around the injured man's ankles. The wounds, from where the cuffs had cut deeply into the swollen skin, began to bleed more freely. "You guys ready?" he asked Zablonsky and Henderson who had moved in close to support the unconscious man's body. At their nods, the big detective stretched to his full reach and awkwardly unlocked the cuff from Ellison's right wrist. 

Both cops grunted with exertion as they abruptly took Ellison's full weight. 

"Here," Merriweather said, spreading the tarp out on the dirty floor. 

As carefully as possible, Zablonsky and Henderson laid their wounded colleague onto the faded fabric. That done, they remained kneeling, watching soberly as Blair sank to the filthy floor and, lifting his partner's head, laid it in his lap. He began gently stroking the soft brown hair over and over, murmuring, "It's all over, Jim; you're going to be all right. It's all over." 

"An ambulance is on the way, Blair," Taggart assured him as he approached the group, cell phone in hand. 

Never pausing in his stroking, Blair looked up. Eyes bright with unshed tears, he said unsteadily, "Thank you, Joel. I'm so sorry you had to make the choice to shoot." Looking around at the others, he smiled tremulously. "Thank you, too. If you guys hadn't agreed to help, this situation could've turned out much differently. I'm so very much in your debt." 

"Forget it, kid," Matthews said gruffly. The other cops looked equally as uncomfortable with the gratitude. "We...I...actually owe you an apology. I hesitated on the shoot." 

"Me, too," piped up Hanson. The three uniformed officers wore equally shame-faced expressions. "I knew what he'd done; I knew, but..." 

"...all you saw at the end of your weapon was a fellow cop and friend," concluded Sandburg. There was no censure in his face or voice. 

All the cops nodded somberly at that. Just then, a wailing siren became audible. Within seconds, it was clearly right outside the warehouse. 

"Hanson, Matthews, go guide the paramedics down here," Taggart said wearily, abruptly feeling drained as his adrenaline surge leveled off. "Merriweather and Zablonsky, you two check out the rest of the warehouse; there might be some evidence stashed here. Henderson, you'd better direct traffic. This place is going to turn into a madhouse in no time." 

The patrol officers' "Yes, sir." merged with the detective partners' dual, "Got it, Captain." 

After they left, an uneasy silence fell. Sandburg's gaze returned to his injured partner. Without looking up, he asked, "Did you call Captain Banks?" 

"Yes, I did; I also called Chief Warren." Sighing, Joel ran a hand over his face. "Simon wasn't very pleased. It seems he hadn't even noticed we were missing." 

At that, the anthropologist glanced up. Looking way older than his years due to exhaustion and horrific stress, he said intensely, "I am sorry, Joel. This case--this case has been hell for you, too; if in an entirely different way. I never meant to come between you and Simon." 

Forcibly reminded of his various acts in violation of Banks' stated orders, Taggart winced, then gave a small smile. "You haven't, Blair," he reassured him. "Yes, Simon will be furious; yes, he will bellow and stomp around. But give him time and he'll calm down. We've been friends too long to give it up now." 

As the upstairs corridor came alive with noise and bustle, Blair glanced down at Ellison again, and then back up. "I'm sorry you had to shoot him. Believe it or not, I never wanted that." 

"I know." An expression of sorrow settled on the tired, round face. "I never wanted it, either; but in the end, I didn't make the choice. Rafe made it himself when he refused to put down the bat." 

Shivering anew as the memory replayed in his brain of the lethal instrument rapidly descending toward his unconscious lover, Blair said abruptly, "I need to apologize to Jim, too. This was all my fault." 

Blinking at him, Joel protested, "How can you possibly think such a thing?! You've worked yourself into total exhaustion trying to find Jim; you've fought Simon at every step and wouldn't let him stop you when you knew you were onto the right answer. How can what happened to Jim possibly be your fault?" 

"I should've found him sooner," Blair said simply. Eyes dark and haunted, he repeated, "I should've found him before this happened. Thirty hours, Joel. While I stood around and twiddled my thumbs for thirty fucking hours, Rafe beat and tortured him. I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to look him in the face again." 

"Jim won't blame you, Blair," Joel said decisively. He knew that fact without question. 

"I blame myself." 

The whole time they'd been speaking, the grad student had continued stroking and caressing Ellison's face and hair. He didn't stop when the paramedics boiled down the stairs and rushed over to the stricken man; nor did he stop when they began assessing the injured cop. When one of them looked up at Taggart and started to protest, the Bomb Squad captain said simply, "They're partners; leave him be." 

Grumbling under their breaths, the paramedics reluctantly worked around the anthropologist. For his part, Sandburg was oblivious to the exchange; all of his attention was fixed on Ellison's bruised and swollen face. Voice abnormally level, he filled the medics in on what had been done to his partner. 

As the paramedics tended to their patient, the warehouse became over-run with plain-clothed and uniformed police. When Serena arrived with her Forensics crew, she stood over the dead man for several seconds then, lips thinning, she briskly ordered her team into action. 

Twenty minutes after their arrival, the paramedics had stabilized Ellison to their satisfaction and were ready to transfer him to Cascade General Hospital. Never losing physical contact with Ellison, Sandburg walked beside the stretcher all the way out of the warehouse and up to the ambulance. There, he waited only until Ellison had been safely loaded into the back of the vehicle before he climbed in after him. Shaking his head in resignation, the head medic nonetheless said nothing to the stubborn young man, but only shouted out to his partner that everything was ready for transport. 

Meanwhile, Taggart had called his four co-conspirators over to him. "I want you guys to head on over to the hospital. You should go, too, Henderson," he said to the officer who had trailed curiously after the others. 

Knowing that leaving the scene was breaking standard procedure, Henderson started to protest. 

"It's okay, Charlie," muttered Merriweather. "We'll explain when we get there." 

Looking at them quizzically, the other patrol officer decided to keep his questions to himself until later and just trudged obediently after Merriweather and Zablonsky. 

As the ambulance turned the corner at the far end of the drive, Simon Banks' Taurus screamed up and rocked to a halt beside Taggart's car. Closing his eyes momentarily, Joel gathered his resolve and walked over to meet him. 

Banks was light-years beyond anger. Ebony eyes giving off sparks as he stepped out of his car, he snarled, " I gave specific orders..." 

Joel let him go no further. "If we'd followed those orders, Jim would be dead. Rafe was preparing to kill him as we arrived." 

Unable to fight the logic in that simple statement, Banks fumed impotently for several minutes. Looking around the bustling crime scene, he found another point of contention. "Where the hell is Hanson, Matthews, Merriweather and Zablonsky? They know better than to leave a scene until I tell them differently!" 

"I told them to go with Blair to the hospital," Joel answered equably. Seeing Banks' look of dark suspicion and knowing his friend was on to his delaying tactics, he just smiled serenely. 

Seething with humiliation--Banks could still hear Warren's acerbic comments when he'd been forced to admit that, no, he hadn't been present at the rescue of his best detective and, yes, it seemed Mr. Sandburg had been correct once again--the Major Crime captain was determined to find something on which to vent his spleen. 

"Which one of those idiots fired the fatal shot?" he growled. "IAD is going to give me five kinds of hell if it wasn't a righteous shoot. I suppose Sandburg was standing by, egging them on to fire." 

"I shot him," Taggart confessed blandly. His face gave no outward sign of the pain that truth caused him. "As for Blair, he encouraged nothing. In fact, he later apologized to me for being put into that position." 

Seeing Banks bluster as he attempted to find something else to complain about, Joel abruptly decided he'd had enough. Concluding it was time to get everything out in the open, he said curtly, "Just for your information, Kumar Mazuaa is currently working on that new DNA test Blair told us about this morning. He got the sample from Langstrom's body after he'd called Ottawa for the exact procedure." 

If the situation hadn't been so grave, Joel might've laughed at the comical way Banks' jaw dropped. "But, but..." stammered the flabbergasted captain. "I told Sandburg..." Eyes narrowing, Simon ground out furiously, "That queer bastard! He went crying to Warren behind my back..." 

"He did not!" Taggart answered sharply. "All it needed was a captain's signature. I authorized it." 

Banks' lower jaw renewed its acquaintance with his knees. "You?!" The knowledge that his oldest and closest friend had deliberately circumvented his authority was staggering...and exquisitely painful. "Why?' 

"Think on it, Simon," Joel advised him. He turned to head over to his car. Getting in, he said, "When you have an answer, I'll be at the hospital." 

Banks was still staring, slack-jawed, long after the red gleam of the other man's tail lights had disappeared from view. Then, swearing explosively, he stalked angrily into the ramshackle warehouse. 

<<<>>>

Coat tails flapping about him, Simon Banks strode purposefully through the automatic doors of Cascade General's Emergency Department. He cast a quick glance around the waiting area, and instantly headed for the small knot of uniformed patrol officers and plain-clothed detectives huddled together in one corner. Faintly puzzled at the furtive air which came over the group at his appearance, he demanded of no one in particular, "Well?" 

"Ellison's out of surgery," reported Matthews. "The doc said he's going to be all right. Captain Taggart and Sandburg are still up in the fifth floor waiting room, talking to the surgeon." 

"Thank God," sighed Banks, feeling most of his tension drain away. He decided to indulge his curiosity. "What the hell has got all of you looking so shifty-eyed?" 

To his amazement, none of the men appeared willing to meet his eyes. Swift, uneasy looks flickered between them; two of the patrol officers shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Just as the silence was growing thick, Matthews said, "We're just really tired, Captain. That's all." The detective gave a careless shrug. "When you came in, we were getting ready to head back to Central to file our reports." 

"Okay." Still slightly bemused, Simon figured it was best to ignore the strange behavior. _God knows this affair has been rough on everyone._ He'd turned away to head up to the fifth floor when Hanson spoke up. 

"We apologize that someone didn't keep you updated on Ellison's condition, Captain. Only...we'd expected to see you here hours ago." 

Flushing guiltily at the unmistakable note of accusation in the soft statement, Banks said curtly, "Duty doesn't always let me be where I want to be, Hanson." He didn't turn around. "You should know that. By the way," he added tersely, "I want to see you, Matthews, Merriweather and Zablonsky in my office at three PM today. It seems you four need a refresher course on following orders." 

The chorus of acknowledgment was flat and non-committal. 

Hurrying over to an elevator, Banks hid a simmering temper--and an uncomfortably prickling conscience--behind a professional facade. *I know it's been almost five hours since Jim was rescued; but what else could I have done? Someone had to take charge of the situation back at the warehouse. My god, a police captain shot and killed a detective, who was in the process of torturing another detective. The mayor and Chief Warren are already screaming for an explanation; the damn press have worked themselves into a frenzy. I needed to be there to contain things as much as possible; Jim will understand that.* 

Actions thus justified to himself, Banks rode the empty elevator up to the fifth floor. Disembarking, he turned left. The broad, carpeted hallway was dimly lit in deference to the early hour. As he neared the halfway point of the corridor, a man dressed in green scrubs and a sweat-stained surgical cap exited the nurse's station. His tunic and trousers were smeared with broad swathes of dried blood. 

"Doctor!" The physician's face was familiar to him, but he was unable to immediately recall the man's name. 

The doctor looked up and smiled. "Ah, Captain Banks...there you are. I must admit to being surprised not to have found you waiting with the others." 

Smiling tightly, Banks excused himself, saying, "Police emergencies wait for no one." In a sudden flash, the man's name came to him. This doctor was the same one who'd treated Ellison several months ago when the detective had gotten his right forearm slashed by a resisting home invasion suspect. "How's Jim, Dr. Mortenson?" 

"Barring unforeseen circumstances, Detective Ellison will make a full recovery." Smiling again at the flash of relief which passed over the dark face, Mortenson continued, "As I told Mr. Sandburg, the areas on Mr. Ellison's chest and back needed extensive stitching, but the wounds should heal completely. Unfortunately, they're deep enough there will be some residual scarring. The abraded areas on his wrists and ankles should heal without problems. The orthopedic surgeon dealt with the fractures and other damage caused by the baseball bat." 

"Baseball bat?" Banks repeated, pulse quickening. "What fractures? Why did he need stitches?" 

"Oh, I am sorry, Captain," apologized the surgeon. "I'd forgotten you hadn't been briefed on the full extent of Mr. Ellison's injuries; from all accounts, it was quite a vicious attack. The paramedics reported Detective Ellison was repeatedly struck by a wooden baseball bat. He had a compound dislocated fracture of his left shoulder and a severe dislocation of the right knee, and two separate fractures in his left forearm. He also sustained three broken ribs from the assault. There were numerous deep, lacerated welts to his chest and back from being beaten with a leather whip; along with abraded cuts around each wrist and ankle from apparently struggling to get free of the restraints. Detective Ellison also has multiple areas of deep bruising scattered about his face, torso and back. In addition to that, due to their being restrained over his head for such an extended period of time, both his hands sustained some blood flow problems but, fortunately, circulation was not permanently restricted. 

"I cleaned and sutured all the lacerations. Dr. Singh reduced the left forearm fractures and applied a cast. As for Detective Ellison's shoulder and knee, Dr. Singh had to go in and surgically repair tendon and ligament tearing at those sites; he also removed multiple blood clots from both of the bursa-- those are the fluid-filled cushions that pad the joints--and fixed those as well. Detective Ellison will have to wear shoulder and knee immobilizers for six to eight weeks to facilitate healing. The massive soft tissue damage at those sites will slow the healing, but shouldn't cause complications. He's going to need months of physical therapy, but Dr. Singh foresees no reason for him not to regain his normal level of fitness." 

"Jesus," breathed Simon, running a hand over his face. "Do you have an estimate on how long he's going to be off work?" 

There was a moment of contemplative silence as the surgeon mulled over his reply. "For my own part, the welts and lacerations should be almost completely healed in three to four weeks. His hands should recover their normal function with very minor physical therapy. But..." Mortenson held up a warning finger at Banks' relieved sigh. "...the injuries from the blunt force trauma will take much longer to heal. Dr. Singh has estimated that it will be at least eight to ten weeks before Detective Ellison's knee and shoulder have recovered enough for desk work only. It will be an additional two to three months before he will be ready to return to his usual duties." 

Heart sinking in his chest, Banks nodded glumly. Personal feelings aside, the administrative nightmare of having his best detective out of action for almost half a year was enough to jump-start a throbbing migraine. 

"Is there anything else, Captain?" asked Mortenson. "If not, you must excuse me. It's very late and my bed is calling." 

"Thank you, Dr. Mortenson. I..." 

"...was worried about Detective Ellison," Mortenson finished for him. "I know. Your detective is lucky to have such good friends. It's going to be a little while yet before he's brought up to his room. Why don't you have a seat in the waiting area with Captain Taggart? The floor nurses will tell you when he's settled in his room and ready for visitors." 

"Taggart?" echoed Banks. He frowned. "Where's Sandburg?" 

"Where he'll do the most good, of course!" The physician smiled. "I learned my lesson when Detective Ellison was here a few months ago; a nurse has already escorted Mr. Sandburg back to the Recovery Room to sit with him." 

Banks' frown deepened. "Was that wise? Ellison surely doesn't need that sort of disturbance while he's trying to wake up from major surgery." 

The smile on Mortenson's face slipped. "I really have no idea what you're referring to, Captain. Yes, Mr. Sandburg can become a little...assertive...with the staff when it comes to Mr. Ellison's medical treatment, but I'm sure it's because he cares a great deal. I can't fault the man for that." 

"Assertive!" snorted Banks. "That's a nice way of saying he's always trying to tell your people how to do their jobs. Well, don't worry about it, Doctor. If he tries to get `assertive' with you, just let me know. There's no reason for you to listen to his nonsense, and I won't let him interfere with Jim's medical care." 

"Again, Captain, I'm afraid you have me at a loss." The surgeon was regarding him with bewilderment. "If Mr. Sandburg has a question or complaint about Mr. Ellison's treatment, I _do_ have to listen to him. I would in any case, even if it wasn't for the legalities. I've discovered he's quite correct when it comes to how the detective will react to drugs and treatments." 

Now it was Banks' turn to be confused. "What do you mean, legalities?" 

"Simply that Mr. Sandburg has the legal right to be involved in any treatment prescribed for the detective. According to the form in front of the chart, he's Mr. Ellison's Durable Power of Attorney for Healthcare and Financial Affairs." 

"Power of Attorney!" Simon felt his jaw drop. "When the hell did that happen? As for legalities, I thought I was listed as Jim's emergency contact?" He resolutely quashed the sudden swell of hurt, but did vow to have a private talk with Ellison as soon as possible. *This was probably Sandburg's idea. The bastard most likely nagged and nagged until Jim had to give in or go crazy. Ten to one, he never imagined Sandburg would actually act on it.* 

"The date on the form indicates it was executed by a judge over a year ago," Mortenson informed him. "However, I know for a fact that Mr. Sandburg was unaware of this designation when Detective Ellison was last here; I had to tell him when I came out to get permission to suture the detective's arm. If you'll recall, Mr. Ellison had had an idiosyncratic reaction to the pain medication and was not coherent enough to sign the form. 

"To answer your other question; yes, you are listed as a secondary emergency contact--Mr. Sandburg is listed as the primary. However, being an emergency contact does not automatically give a person a legal right to be included in the healthcare planning for a patient. Legally, only the patient and his chosen Power of Attorney can make any treatment decisions and that attorney privilege usually only comes into effect when the patient is unable to make a competent decision for himself. Technically, that rule also includes cases where there are close family members, including spouses and children; but the statute is generally set aside for those, unless there is conflict with the family regarding the treatment plan. Since Mr. Sandburg is not only the legal representative for healthcare, but also for financial and personal affairs, he is most certainly entitled to have input into Detective Ellison's medical care." Mortenson gave Banks a worried look. "Is there a problem, Captain?" 

"No, there's no problem." 

Taggart's voice came from behind the surgeon. Walking up to the two men, he gave the concerned doctor a quiet smile. "Captain Banks was just unaware that Detective Ellison had a Power of Attorney," he explained placidly. Throwing a cautionary look at Banks, Joel continued, "Now he knows he doesn't have to worry about him when Jim isn't able to speak for himself. Isn't that right, Simon?" 

The flinty look in Taggart's eyes dared Banks to contradict him. 

"Yes, that's right," Banks said slowly. He had to unclench his back teeth in order to answer. "Sorry to have kept you, Dr. Mortenson." 

Giving the tall police captain a last, puzzled glance, Mortenson excused himself and headed down the hallway. 

Barely waiting until the surgeon was out of earshot, Simon said heatedly, "What the hell..." 

"Not out here in the hall," Joel stated tersely. He gestured at the waiting area. "In here." 

Precariously holding on to his temper, Banks stalked into the waiting area. After making sure the two of them were alone in the comfortable room, he growled, "You mind telling me just why the hell you interfered out there?" 

"I stopped you for two very good reasons," Taggart answered shortly. "For Heaven's sake, Simon; why yell at the poor doctor just because you're upset that Jim made Blair his Power of Attorney? Mortenson had nothing to do with the decision!" 

Although he was still hurt and angry, Banks had to admit that Taggart was correct. Exhaling slowly, he ran a hand over his face as he forced himself to calm down. Nodding, he curtly asked, "What was the second reason?" 

Taking a deep breath, Joel looked his friend in the eye. "It's none of your business who Jim chose to be his Power of Attorney." The words were harsh, but the tone of voice was gentle. 

"None of my business?!" sputtered Banks, amazed. "How can you say that? Jim's my friend; my good friend. I can't just sit back and do nothing about a mistake this far-reaching!" 

"Who says the decision is a mistake? I'm sure Jim's fully aware of the document's implications. You're letting your personal feelings influence your judgment again." 

Stiffening, Simon said coldly, "I suppose you feel *now *is the appropriate time to say `I told you so'? Did it never once occur to you that Sandburg could've been drawing the wrong conclusions from the evidence? I was just doing my job as a police captain; you swallowed, without a single qualm, every outlandish idea the kid spouted. My god, Joel--I still can't believe the way you knowingly went behind my back on this matter...twice!" 

"It's a captain's job to question and evaluate," Joel agreed easily. He went on, "But it's also a captain's job to listen to his men, to listen to the evidence. For the first time since I've known you, Simon, you let your personal feelings get in the way of your professional duties." He regarded his old friend through saddened eyes. "I didn't want to go behind your back, but you left me no choice. Jim had to be found--Rafe had to be stopped--and you refused to listen to any facts of the case just because it was Blair who figured it out." 

For the second time in fifteen minutes, Banks felt a flood of hurt wash over him. Joel Taggart had been his friend ever since they'd met as cadets at the Police Academy. Simon had been Joel's best man at his wedding. Taggart and his wife, Shirley, were the godparents of Banks' son, Daryl. They had supported each other unstintingly during their slow rise through the ranks of the police department. In all their long years of close friendship, Joel had never questioned, nor argued with, Banks' professional behavior. To have him do so now cut Simon to the quick; he knew he would've felt less pain if the other man had simply taken his gun out and shot him. Taggart choosing to back Sandburg, instead of being loyal to his best friend, was an especially wounding blow for him to bear. 

That knowledge ate away at Banks like an acid. "Why, Joel? Why Sandburg over me?" he pleaded, swallowing the sudden rush of bitter hurt. "We've known each other twenty-seven years! Why would you suddenly feel you couldn't come to me, trust me? Have I ever not trusted you?" 

Looking every bit as distressed as Banks, Taggart shook his head. "No, Simon," he denied instantly. "You've never given me reason to doubt our friendship. But this situation wasn't about friendship; this was about stopping a killer. You wouldn't listen to the evidence; I had to do something!" It was Taggart's turn to beg. "What would you have had me do, Simon? Close my eyes to Rafe's actions simply because it was Blair who told us about it? Let a serial murderer go unpunished just because his victims were people living lifestyles you consider wrong? That's not justice--that's bigotry! I can't believe you would condone something like that. Have you stopped to consider that, by refusing to admit Rafe's guilt, you were condemning Jim to certain, ugly death?" 

"What I can't believe," Simon said hoarsely, "is that you would continually overlook my feelings and position concerning this investigation. That you would allow a...a perverted queer like Sandburg to overturn my expressly-stated orders. That hurts, Joel; that really hurts." Abruptly, he turned away from the other man; blinking at the cheerfully painted walls, he tried to control his chaotic emotions. 

"Simon, Simon...can you even _hear_ yourself?" There was a wealth of despair in Joel's voice. "I'm trying to tell you that Jim almost died because you refused to listen to the evidence, and all you care about is Blair's sexuality!" 

"Because it's wrong, damn it!" Breathing heavily, Simon stared at him with shocked eyes. "How can you support him in this way? God knows I'm not the most religious of men, but I know you believe faithfully in your church and its teachings. How can you go against your beliefs like this? How can you be friendly with someone you know is an abomination against the rules of both God and Man?" 

Smiling sadly, Joel shook his head. "I'm not going against my beliefs, Simon. The God I believe in loves all his creations equally. If Blair is gay, it's because God chose to create him that way. Who am I to question His judgment? On the personal side, Blair has never acted in any fashion to make me believe he's not worthy of my respect and friendship." 

Before either man could say anything else, a nurse came into the waiting room. "Are you gentlemen waiting for Detective Ellison?" At Taggart's nod, she stated, "They're bringing him up now. He'll be in room 532." 

Since Banks seemed to have lost his ability to speak, Joel thanked the woman for her news. He started to follow her from the waiting area then, aware that the other man hadn't moved, glanced back and asked curiously, "Aren't you coming, Simon?" 

"No." To Banks, it felt as though the weight of the world had suddenly crashed onto his shoulders. Taggart's assertion--that Ellison would've been killed because of a failure on his part--was the last straw. Sandburg might have the wool pulled over everyone's eyes from Warren down to Taggart, but Banks knew he couldn't give up the fight to prove the anthropologist's true colors. He still had to warn Jim; the ex-Ranger, at least, would thank him for his intervention. 

"No," Simon repeated. "No, you go on, Joel; I've...I've got to go back to the office. Warren was throwing a major temper tantrum the last I heard; I'd better get back before he works himself into a stroke." Carefully not looking at the other man, he stated, "Tell Jim I'll be in to see him later. Keep me updated on how he's doing." There was an underlying note of defeat in the normally decisive tones. 

Joel shook his head in sorrow as he watched his old friend walk away, shoulders bowed. He was well aware that Banks was experiencing considerable emotional pain over what he felt was Joel's betrayal of their long friendship. Joel, himself, felt a constant ache in his chest at the current estrangement between them. But everything that made him the man he was insisted that he'd acted in the only way he honorably could. The gut feeling of an experienced cop had been in total agreement with the conscience of a deeply religious man; the two halves of his soul wouldn't have permitted him to act in any other manner than the way he had. 

He and Simon would have to work together at repairing the damage, but Joel was more than willing to do so. He adamantly refused to let a twentyseven year friendship just slip away. The Bomb Squad captain also fervently hoped that Banks had suffered no long-term loss of respect and loyalty from the men in his department. Hopefully, now that Jim Ellison was going to be all right, everyone would be willing to just forgive and forget. 

Sighing deeply, Joel shook his head. His sense of duty was nagging at him to also return to Central. Warren would need to be informed of the actual facts concerning the shooting; sadly, Taggart knew he couldn't reliably depend on Banks to furnish them this time. He also intended to be sure that Simon didn't take his resentment out on the men who'd accompanied him and Blair to the warehouse. They, too, had only been following their consciences. 

Hearing a noise, he glanced up to catch a glimpse of a gurney going by, followed by a weary-looking Sandburg. Quietly calling the younger man's name, he went to check on Jim's condition, and to tell Blair that he had to leave. 

<<<>>>

Nine o'clock that same Sunday evening, Simon acknowledged the tightening of his nerves as he exited the elevator on the fifth floor of Cascade General Hospital. Although it was eighteen hours since he'd last been there, he knew, with a grim certainty, that he would find Sandburg still camped out in Ellison's room. His pride, however, refused to let him stay away a minute longer--and his pride had taken enough hits within the past twenty-four hours. Warren had flatly denied him the right to discipline his own officers for going against orders; the chief of police had commented dryly that it was a good thing those four men knew when to choose intuition over blind obedience. If that hadn't been bad enough, the news that Sandburg had been correct all along and had actually been the one to discover where Rafe had taken Ellison, had spread through the PD like wildfire. The fact that Sandburg had assaulted a rookie cop seemed to make no difference to his hordes of admirers. Incredibly, the whole station appeared to agree that Adams richly deserved his month's suspension without pay. To make matters even more ludicrous, Banks had heard rumors that Mayor Baxter was considering awarding the anthropologist a special humanitarian medal for simultaneously rescuing his wounded partner and stopping a rogue police detective. 

_Face it, Simon,_ he told himself sourly as he walked down the hospital corridor, *the damn queer is going to be just oozing smug self-righteousness. But if you can control a whole department of strong-willed cops, you can handle one snot-nosed punk. You have to handle him; you can't let him keep you away from Jim. Jim's your friend; no matter what Joel says, you have to fight for his best interests. At the moment, his best interests lie in getting him alone so you can tell him about his supposed best friend and Guide. Once Jim's been informed, I'll gladly tell the whole, damn PD; we'll see who's the last one laughing, then.* 

Deep inside himself, Banks admitted to being completely bewildered at his behavior during the prior two and a half days. He knew he'd disappointed his oldest friend with his sudden, implacable loathing of Blair Sandburg, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. There didn't seem to be any way to explain just how deeply the revulsion and horror had struck when the anthropologist had confessed to romantically loving Ellison. That lifestyle--physical love between members of the same sex--was just intrinsically wrong; it perverted the very rules of Nature, itself. Simon felt that to his marrow. He couldn't believe that Joel didn't realize how self-destructive, both personally and professionally, his continuing support of Sandburg could be. Once the other cops found out about the grad student's inappropriate behavior, he would never again be welcome in the police station. As for Joel's incredibly naive notion that Ellison already knew of his roommate's unacceptable feelings toward him, yet he still let the kid hang around. Banks had to stop himself from laughing at the very thought. Everything he knew about the hard-edged, super-macho, ex-Army Ranger told him that idea was simply impossible. 

Weaving through the small crowd congregated near the nurse's station, Banks reached the end of the hallway and turned right. He was only a few feet from Ellison's room when the door opened and an obviously sleep-deprived Sandburg stumbled into the hall. The anthropologist froze when he caught sight of Banks, then a hard look settled on the expressive face. Automatically noting--and dismissing--the heavy beard stubble, disheveled hair, rumpled clothing and dark circles under wary cerulean eyes, Banks continued toward Ellison's room. He refused to even acknowledge the tense figure. 

However, as he drew abreast of the younger man, Sandburg stepped in front of him and threw out a restraining hand. "Before you go in there, you and I are going to have a little talk." 

Instantly bristling at the sharp tone of command in the low voice, Banks snapped, "You and I have nothing to talk about, Sandburg. Now, get the hell out of my way." 

The grad student's determined stance never wavered. "If you want to see Jim, Captain Banks, you and I _will_ talk. Joel told me this morning that you're aware I have the legal right to keep you from Jim's room. Don't force me to exercise that authority." 

Drawing himself up to his full height, Simon growled, "I don't respond well to threats." His eyes shot lasers at the shorter man. 

"That was not a threat, Captain; that was a promise." Sandburg met the hot glare unflinchingly. "Now, do you want me to call hospital security, or are you going to be reasonable?" 

Taking several fortifying breaths, Banks gave a short nod. Inwardly, though, he promised himself a time of reckoning with the high-handed anthropologist. "Whatever you have to say, be quick about it," he stated icily. 

Outwardly unfazed by the larger man's aggressive posturing, Blair took an unobtrusive breath and looked Banks directly in the eye. "Regardless of what you currently insist on believing, I have no desire to restrict your visits. Jim considers you a good friend, and I'm not going to tell him differently. But I will _not_ allow you to upset him. Is that understood? You will save your holier-thanthou bigotry until after he gets out of the hospital." 

Flabbergasted beyond speech for long moments, Banks gaped at the utter arrogance in the crisply-spoken demand. He finally recovered his ability to form words. "Who the hell do you think you are?!" he hissed. "Nobody, especially a long-haired faggot, tells me what I can or can not say!" 

Refusing to back down from the enraged man, Sandburg said simply, "I'm Jim Ellison's legally appointed Power of Attorney." He watched Banks' eyes narrow at that unwelcome reminder. "If you upset him, I can, and will, have hospital security bar you from that room. I'm sure the press would just love that little tidbit of gossip." 

Breathing heavily, Simon ground out, "I've already told you, I won't tolerate threats." 

"As I've already told _you_ ; I don't make threats, only promises." Sandburg regarded the angry police captain with a steely resolve. "Jim isn't in any condition right now, mentally or physically, to deal with this mess. Once he's back home at the loft, you can tell him whatever you like. I won't be able to stop you, then." 

Whirling around until his back was to Sandburg, Banks clenched his jaw against the inopportune words which wanted to escape. He stood there, hands bunched into tight fists, forcing himself to slow his breathing and to think rationally. *Where does that fucking bastard get off, thinking he can dictate to me?!* After several minutes, however, his respiration rate slowed and he reluctantly came to the conclusion that he had no other choice but to accede to Sandburg's demand. *If I want to see Jim; and I must; I have to see for myself that he's going to be all right--then I'm just going to have to play along for now. As that son of a bitch pointed out, once Jim recovers enough to leave the hospital, Sandburg won't be able to screen his visitors.* 

After a few more measured breaths, Banks turned back around to face the resolute figure. Deliberately ignoring the pale, exhausted face with its blood-shot eyes, Banks sneered, "I suppose you're going to play baby-sitter every time I want to visit?" 

"No." Blair shook his head. "That's the difference between us, Captain. You wouldn't believe a word I said, no matter how much proof I had. On the other hand, I don't always require physical proof. Your word will be sufficient." Overlooking Banks' incredulous expression, the grad student said, "I'm very much aware that Jim is one of your closest friends and that, ordinarily, you would never consciously try to upset him after he's been badly injured. These, however, are not normal circumstances; your attitude leaves me no choice." 

To his dismay, Sandburg felt the burn of sudden tears. Distantly realizing he was fast approaching complete meltdown from the horrific stress he'd been under, he forced himself to hold it together for a little while longer. "I, of course, won't mention this matter, either. All I ask is that you give me your word that you won't upset him." It took the last of his control to keep the emotion out of his voice. "If I'm here when you come to visit Jim, I'll leave the room so you two can talk in peace." 

Even as furious as Banks was, it never occurred to him to lie; to agree to the anthropologist's terms just to get into Ellison's room and then spill the beans behind his back. To Simon Banks, giving his word was an unbreakable vow. Sandburg was completely aware of that facet of the captain's personality; it was one of the many character traits Banks shared with Jim Ellison. 

Biting off every word, Banks said, "All right, Sandburg; you win." His temper tried to flare once more, but he pushed it back down. Unfortunately, the unpalatable option was the only path currently open to him. Banks had no illusions that Sandburg wouldn't gleefully enforce his threat to block him from visiting, then, just as cheerfully, leak the news to the press as well. "I give you my word that I'll say nothing of this situation to Jim until he leaves the hospital." 

The police captain had to reluctantly give the younger man credit; in no way whatsoever, did Sandburg flaunt his victory. Instead, the grad student just calmly stepped aside, asking evenly, "Will fifteen minutes be enough time, Captain Banks? Jim's sleeping--he's getting continuous doses of pain medication through his intravenous--but you can have as much time as you need." 

"I only want to see how he's doing. If he's sleeping, I won't disturb him." The bizarrely normal conversation attempted to stick in Simon's throat. 

Sandburg nodded. "Thank you." 

Without saying another word, Banks brushed past the younger man. He had just put a hand on the door to open it, when he heard Sandburg say softly, "I'm sorry, you know." 

Dreading what was coming without knowing why, Banks stiffened. 

Voice barely audible, Blair continued, "I know you don't want to hear this, Simon, but I did look upon you as my friend." He knew his words had hit home by the increased tension in the broad back. "I'm just so very sorry that I assumed the feeling was mutual." 

Unwilling to acknowledge the pain and loss so clearly present in the husky voice, Banks pushed the door open and let it swing shut behind him. 

<<<>>>

Startled, Sandburg awoke with a gasp. Heart pounding, he frantically looked around and saw only unfamiliar surroundings. Still heavily fogged with sleep, it took several slow seconds for his brain to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. *Oh, yeah. Hospital. Jim! * Whipping his head to the right, he saw his injured lover was still sleeping peacefully, the broad chest rising and falling easily with each regular breath. He also discovered the cause of his abrupt awakening. 

"Oh, hey, Trudy," he mumbled, voice rough from sleep. 

"I didn't mean to wake you," apologized the night nurse. "I'm just adding Detective Ellison's next dose of IV antibiotic." As she was speaking, Trudy deftly attached a plastic syringe of yellow liquid to the intravenous pump and programmed the machine to deliver the medication. 

That done, she gently lifted the sheet from the sleeping man and visually checked the dressings on his back. As he was propped onto his right side to keep pressure off the wounds, this was easily accomplished by pressing down on the supporting pillows. When she lowered the sheet again, Blair stood and stepped away from the bed. By this time--a quick glance at the clock on the wall showed it was four AM, Monday morning--he knew the routine by heart. Smiling gently at the tired man, Trudy swiftly completed her duties; checking Ellison's chest, wrist and ankle dressings, and making sure that the swelling in his left arm and right knee didn't press against the cast and leg immobilizer, thus blocking effective blood flow to those extremities. 

Finished with her assessment of her patient, the stout, middle-aged nurse turned her appraising gaze onto her patient's visitor. Taking in the unmistakable signs of exhaustion, she shook her head and tried once again to persuade the anxious man to return to the waiting room, where he could at least stretch out on a sofa. 

"He's doing just fine, Blair." Trudy repeated the same reassurance she'd been using for the last ten hours. "His blood pressure and pulse are within normal limits; he's not running a temperature. As I said before, Dr. Mortenson only ordered the antibiotics as a precaution against possible bacterial exposure from the dirty warehouse. Why don't you come out to the waiting room and at least try to rest? I promise I'll keep a close eye on him." 

Blair shook his head and gave a half-grin. "Nice try, but stop wasting your breath." Moving back to the head of the bed, he reached over and tenderly stroked Ellison's hair. Weary as he was, the grad student had no idea that his face gave away every dearly-held emotion. 

Giving a resigned sigh, the nurse shook her head. "I had to try," she said, viewing the caresses with a tolerant eye. 

Hiding her smile, Trudy was turning to leave when Sandburg asked hesitantly, "You sure he's really doing okay?" Suddenly realizing that sounded as if he didn't trust her professional skills, he amended, "I'm not doubting you, honestly. It's just..." The husky voice trailed off. 

"It's just what?" prompted Trudy, not at all insulted. After thirty years of nursing experience, she knew it was exhaustion and stress which made the younger man question her statement. 

"It's been over twenty-four hours since Jim's surgery, and he still hasn't woken up. Not really." Sandburg removed his gaze from Ellison's sleeping face and regarded the woman with wide, dark eyes. Teeth worrying at his lower lip, he anxiously queried, "Are you sure he's all right?" 

Seeing the fear he was unable to hide, Trudy came up to the apprehensive man and looked him straight in the eye. "I am positive," she stated clearly, "and, more importantly, so are Dr. Mortenson and Dr. Singh." Maintaining steady eye contact, she continued in her most confident voice, "Due to the trauma of the attack itself, and the hours of surgery required to repair the damage, it's not at all uncommon for Detective Ellison to still be sleeping. He's also receiving morphine sulfate--a strong pain medicine-- continually through his IV. While the dosage might be less than what is usual for a man his age and size, it's still a substantial amount." 

The veteran registered nurse knew that the doctors and the day shift nurses had already explained all of this to the anthropologist. But she had learned over the years that, when it came to distraught families, the more often you repeated the information, the more you increased the chances of the families actually hearing _and_ absorbing what was being said. Stress and fear for a loved one could transform even the most intelligent of persons into someone incapable of understanding anything medical personnel told them. 

Trudy knew with absolute certainty--although nothing had been said officially--that she was looking at a man worried to death about the person he loved. She wasn't bothered in the slightest that both her patient and his visitor were the same gender; she'd decided long ago to leave the debate concerning homosexuality to the churches and politicians. What counted with her was how people felt and behaved toward their fellow human beings. Looking into the blood-shot azure eyes, she had no doubts that Blair Sandburg loved the injured detective very deeply. She also had no hesitancy in believing her patient, even though Ellison had been in a drugged sleep since being admitted to her care, returned those feelings just as intensely. It didn't call for any great leap of faith on her part to reach that conclusion. Watching how Sandburg reacted around his partner told her that she was unquestionably dealing with a committed couple. 

Closing his eyes for the moment, Sandburg took several deep, controlled breaths. Re-opening his eyes, he gave a faint smile. "Thanks, Trudy. Sorry for keeping you; I know you're busy." 

"No apologies necessary," responded Trudy instantly. Continuing to hold his eyes, she said sternly, "You'll have a question or worry, you ask. Okay? If I don't know the answer, I'll find someone who does." 

"Sure thing." Grinning, he gave a quick salute. 

Trudy laughed under her breath, then left to continue with her rounds. 

As the door closed behind her, Sandburg's grin faded. Running a hand over his face, he wearily sank into the chair positioned close to the head of the bed. He reached out and again took his lover's right hand in his, being careful not to jar the IV needle in Ellison's right forearm or to dislodge the dressing around the wrist. Knowing that it would be another two hours before Trudy returned to check on her patient before going off-shift, he decided to close his eyes and try to rest. At least the chair was a somewhat comfortable recliner. Earlier that day, when it had become apparent to the staff that they were not going to be able to budge the obstinate anthropologist, a maintenance worker had substituted the recliner for the hard, straight-backed chair already in the room. The impatiently-waiting man appreciated the thoughtful gesture; however, after almost twenty-four hours of sitting, even the most padded of furniture had a tendency to turn into hard stone. 

Not that he'd been sitting constantly. Nerves frequently getting the best of him, Sandburg had gotten up to pace or to stare out the room's wide window; he'd also made several swift trips to the floor vending machine for coffee. His vigil hadn't been entirely solitary, either. Throughout that long, seemingly never-ending Sunday, Ellison's fellow cops, whenever their schedules permitted, had drifted in to check on their colleague and to gently force food on the worried grad student. An embarrassed Sandburg had found himself on the verge of tears several times, overwhelmed by the genuine outpouring of concern directed not just at his partner, but also toward himself. 

The biggest surprise of the day, however, had to have been when the door had opened at ten-thirty Sunday night and Chief Warren had stepped into the hospital room. The older man had only stayed a few minutes, just long enough to assure himself on Ellison's condition and to express his gratitude for the anthropologist's hard work in stopping David Rafe's murderous spree. He'd also informed Sandburg that the hospital had been instructed to give out no information, by telephone or otherwise, to anyone not wearing a badge. Seeing Sandburg's blank look, the chief of police went on to explain that, drawn by the sensational story, representatives from all the various forms of media were flocking into Cascade. Much to the mayor's dismay, there had even been inquiries from as far afield as Germany and Japan. 

A glum Warren admitted that both Central PD, and Cascade General Hospital, were currently under a massive media siege. Fortunately, due to a heavy police presence outside the hospital, no journalist had so far made it into the building. Blair, who hadn't thought to turn on the TV in Ellison's room, was astonished and counted himself lucky that somebody was capable of clear thinking. He stumbled to express his gratitude on Ellison's behalf; the last thing his seriously injured partner needed was hordes of over-zealous reporters storming his sick room. 

A few minutes later, the police chief had taken his leave. Once Warren had left, Sandburg had gone to the window to actually look out this time, rather than just stare mindlessly into the middle-distance. Gazing ground-ward, he let out a soundless whistle as wide eyes took in the media vans parked haphazardly along the street. The streetlights' fluorescent glare highlighted vans from seven different media outlets; and, Blair decided, that was just the vans on this side of the hospital. Shaking his head in amazement, he'd gone back to his chair, again murmuring a thanks for the police chief's foresight. Once again taking his lover's hand, his thoughts had drifted and he'd come to the frivolous conclusion that Warren had made an even three dozen visitors that Sunday. Along with Ron Morrell from the Pinewood precinct, every police officer assigned to the seventh floor at Central had stopped by the hospital room to check on Ellison. 

Well, all but one, but Sandburg didn't take that lapse as an insult. 

Joel Taggart had left the hospital around three-thirty Sunday morning to return to the PD. Blair, knowing the older man had been up since at least four Saturday morning, had assumed that Taggart would file his report and then head home for some much-deserved sleep. When the phone in the hospital room rang at eight Sunday evening, the anthropologist had been shocked to find the Bomb Squad captain on the other end; even more astounding, the exhausted Taggart was still at Central. Thinking back, however, Sandburg knew he shouldn't have been so stunned. The paperwork required at the end of a criminal case was extremely thorough. If a police officer had fired his weapon during the completion of the case, there were additional forms to fill out; if, when firing his gun, the officer killed the suspect, then the amount of necessary paperwork started to assume the height of Mt. Everest. This time, not only had an officer fired his weapon and killed a suspect, the dead felon had been a fellow police officer. Sandburg couldn't even begin to imagine the number of forms Taggart had been required to file for this incident. There had been an additional time-consuming task; this time, instead of waiting for, and reviewing, the official police report, IAD had grabbed Taggart for an immediate--and lengthy--interview. 

Instantly concerned, Blair had demanded to know if his friend was in any professional jeopardy. Voice hoarse with fatigue, Taggart had tranquilly calmed the younger man's fears. IAD would, of course, have to be even more thorough than usual with this high-profile shooting; Joel said he'd expected that and wasn't worried. He knew the shot had been justified; even more helpful, he reminded Blair, was the presence of five other cops and one civilian observer during the shooting. Taggart had then laughed and remarked he'd become very popular, indeed. When IAD had finished with their initial interview, he'd been told to report to Warren's office. There, much to the cop's surprise, was not only the Chief of Police, but also Mayor Baxter and the head of the city council, as well. Once again he'd had to go over the incident in minute detail, and he'd received another, greater shock when he'd finished. All three men had stood and shaken his hand, congratulating him on the professional way he'd handled the situation. 

Due to the extremely-long interviews, Taggart had only just then--at eight in the evening--finished his paperwork. Apologizing for not having called earlier, Joel had stated that he would stop by the hospital on his way home. Sandburg had immediately vetoed that plan. By that time, Joel would have been awake for over sixty hours; Sandburg had adamantly insisted that he head straight home for a meal and then bed. Joel had argued, but his weariness hadn't let him put up much of a fight. Hanging up, Blair had been conscious of a sense of relief that Joel was on his way home. Although the cop had never said a word to him about it, Blair knew the shooting had to be weighing heavily on the older man's conscience. Joel never took pulling his gun lightly. This time, not only had he killed a man, he'd killed a man he'd worked with and considered a friend. The grad student knew the best therapy for Joel would be to go home and let his wife of twenty-three years fuss over him. Having met Shirley Taggart several times, Blair had no doubts his friend would be in more than capable hands. 

Sandburg was just drifting off to sleep when his eyes snapped open on their own accord. Instinctively looking to his right, he was stunned to see a serene smile curling Ellison's swollen mouth. The limp hand in his flexed slightly. Breath catching, he slid to the edge of his chair and, laying a gentle hand on Ellison's forehead, whispered, "Jim?" 

"Blair." The name was expelled on a soft breath. 

Eyes flooding with relieved tears, Blair said huskily, "I'm here, Jim. I'm here." Leaning forward slightly to be even closer, he continued thickly, "I'm here and you're safe. It's all over now. Open those beautiful blue eyes of yours, okay? I need to see them, Jim. Open your eyes and look at me." 

Several long seconds later, the fluttering lashes finally lifted to reveal somewhat glazed-looking crystal blue eyes. Clearly fighting the urge to immediately fall back to sleep, Ellison smiled again. Voice slurred and barely above a whisper, he said, "Thought...I was dreaming...again. Could smell you...could feel...you. Thought I was...dreaming again." 

"You're not dreaming, babe," Blair reassured tenderly, lightly running the back of his fingers up and down Ellison's bruised left cheek. "I'm really here." 

Forcing his eyes open further, Ellison's smile grew into a smirk. "Knew that. Knew it the instant...I could hear...your heart." Voice coarse and halting due to an extremely raw throat, he declared, "Nobody else sounds...like you. Only you. Knew if you were...here, it was all over." 

"It's over," Sandburg confirmed fiercely. Blinking back his tears, he asked, "Want a drink of water? Your throat must be _so_ dry." 

"Yeah." 

Letting go of Ellison's hand, Sandburg reached to his left and picked up the small pitcher of ice which had been placed on a cabinet beside the bed. Pouring a goodly amount of water into the plastic glass sitting next to it, he then quickly opened a straw and stuck it in the glass. *Thank god, Trudy brought in a new pitcher of ice only a couple of hours ago. This is still nice and cold.* 

Resting the top of the straw lightly against Jim's bruised lips, he said softly, "Here you go, Jim. Small sips, okay? You don't want to make yourself sick; let your stomach get used to it again." 

In complete agreement with that plan, Jim obediently sipped the liquid very slowly. He closed his eyes in relief as the icy liquid eased the painful dryness in his throat. After drinking his fill for the moment, he indicated he was finished. 

As Sandburg returned the glass to the bedside cabinet, the older man asked, "What's the damage this...time, Chief?" His voice was stronger, although the words remained a little slurred. 

Biting his lip against the once-again threatening tears, Sandburg took a deep breath and forced himself to calmly recite his lover's list of injuries. 

When the younger man had concluded his recitation, Jim grimaced in disgust. "S'pose that means I'll be stuck here forever," he grumbled. 

"The doctors told me it would be at least seven to ten days; more, if your wounds became infected." 

The Sentinel was not at all fooled by his Guide's apparently insouciant air. Although still somewhat drowsy, he no longer had any difficulty focusing and could clearly see the obvious indications of extreme stress. Running his eyes over Sandburg from head to waist, Jim gave a mental wince as he took in the younger man's disreputable state. All the signs were there: from the rat's-nest of chestnut curls atop his head, to the heavy, black bags under blood-shot, tear-filled azure eyes, down to the dark beard shadow highlighting the drawn, ashen face. The rumpled clothes, accelerated heart beat and irregular respiration were further clues if he had needed them. Jim knew his lover desperately needed some decent sleep and a nourishing meal. However, he also knew, with just as much certainty, that Blair would steadfastly reject any suggestion that he leave his Sentinel's side. 

Wanting to at least ease the deep stress-lines around the lush mouth, Jim asked hopefully, "Don't s'pose you could find a doctor, get me an early parole?" Fastening soulful eyes on his Guide, he whined, "I hate hospitals, Chief. You know that." 

He expected a roll of the Sandburg eye, accompanied by a despairing shake of the curly head. To Ellison's utter horror, Blair blanched and started to shake. Wrapping both arms about himself tightly, the younger man folded up, collapsing forward until his head was buried in the mattress next to Ellison's right shoulder. His whole body started to tremble in earnest. 

"Chief?" 

When Blair didn't answer, Jim cursed under his breath. It took some awkward bending of his right elbow, but he managed to raise his arm enough so his hand could reach Sandburg's head. Threading his fingers into the tangled curls, he demanded urgently, "Blair, tell me what's wrong!" 

Again, there was no reply, only an increase in the shakes wracking the compact body. 

Still battling the mental fuzziness caused by the morphine, it took Ellison several long minutes to realize that Blair was muttering something over and over. Even with his sensitive hearing, it took a few more minutes for him to make out the badly muffled words. 

Sandburg was moaning, "I'm sorry; I'm so sorry," over and over into the mattress. 

Feeling the sheet under his right shoulder becoming damp, Jim swore again. Gently, but firmly tugging the curls in his right hand, he induced Blair to raise his head. Sandburg reluctantly obeyed, but could not bring himself to meet the other man's eyes. Pleased that at least the anguished litany had stopped, Jim cradled his lover's cheek and softly asked, "What are you talking about, Chief? You've done nothing to be sorry about." 

Tears coursing down his cheeks, body shaking, Sandburg couldn't answer at first. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, the grad student tried to regain enough control to explain. Finally, eyes still cast downward, he forced out, "You...hate hospitals. It's m-my fault..." The husky voice broke on the word, but he finished, "...you're even here." 

"Huh?" Beyond puzzlement, Jim questioned, "How the hell did you come by that idea? Rafe did this, not you." 

"Uh, uh; my fault, my fault," insisted Sandburg, shaking his head. 

"Okay, babe, okay," soothed Ellison. "Take some deep breaths for me, Chief. Tell me why you think me getting hurt is your fault." 

Closing his eyes, Sandburg fought to regulate his erratic breathing. Tears gone for the present, but breath occasionally hitching, he said intensely, "It's my fault because I should've been quicker figuring out where he'd taken you. Something was nagging at me at the back of my mind, but I couldn't put the pieces together." Abruptly, his self-disgust boiled over and he snapped, "You nearly got killed because it took me thirty fucking hours to see what was right in front of my fucking stupid face!" 

Diverted, Ellison murmured, "Thirty hours? Is that how long it was?" Funny, it had somehow seemed so much longer--shackled to the beam, unable to move, shivering from reaction and the cold; anticipation and dread nauseatingly combined, wondering when and where the next blow would land; feeling his bones bending under the blows, until they ultimately couldn't handle the stress any longer and shattered, hearing each individual tissue rip and tear. 

He was recalled to the present by the panicked calling of his name. 

"Jim! Are you all right? What's wrong? Jim, answer me!" Sandburg was frantic. Ellison's already pale face had whitened further, the ice blue eyes going hazy and distant. "Is the pain worse? Do you need more medicine? Is it your ribs? Are you having trouble breathing? Should I get the nurse? Jim!" 

Placing his fingers across the babbling mouth, Ellison gave a strained grin. Out of the blue, his many injuries were beginning to insist he take notice of them. What had before been a generalized, muted knowledge of discomfort was fast morphing into sharp, searing fire in his shoulder and knee; his ribs emitted stabbing pain with each breath. Against his will, his breathing became shallow and irregular; he started to sweat as he unsuccessfully struggled to control the agony suddenly overpowering his nerve endings. 

Seeing the perspiration start to bead on the too-pale face, Sandburg made a unilateral decision. "I'm calling the nurse." Reaching out, he punched the button on the bed console. Then, laying a hand on Ellison's hair, he started stroking and murmured, "Slow breaths, slow and easy; that's it, babe. Close your eyes and slow your breathing. Feel my hand on your head, Jim; that's all you can feel. Feel my hand on your head...everything else is just background." The Guide could tell he'd reached his Sentinel when the tightly clenched jaw muscles relaxed slightly and Ellison's respiration evened out. 

"That's it, Jim. Feel my hand," he urged softly, soothingly. "Feel it push all that pain away. Feel only my hand." 

"Is there something wrong, Blair?" Trudy's quiet voice came from behind him. 

"Could Jim have something else for pain? He's really hurting." Preoccupied with helping his Sentinel deal with the all-encompassing torment, Sandburg was past caring how his actions might be interpreted by others. 

"Dr. Singh left orders for additional morphine, if needed," the nurse stated. "I'll only be a minute or two, I promise." 

"It's okay, Jim." Blair continued his stroking caresses of the soft hair. "Trudy's getting the pain medicine. Just feel my hand; only my hand." 

True to her word, Trudy was back in scant minutes, bearing a small syringe. Swiftly cleaning a rubber access port on the IV tubing with an alcohol pad, she inserted the needle and slowly began injecting the morphine. 

"I have to give it slowly, Blair," she said, answering the unspoken question in the worried eyes. "If I give it too quickly, it could interfere with Detective Ellison's ability to breathe." 

While desperate to remove his lover's pain, Sandburg could grasp the need for caution. Regulating his own breathing, he nodded his understanding. 

"Call me...Jim." came a faint voice from the bed. 

Glancing down, Trudy found herself being scrutinized by hazy blue eyes. Smiling, she replied, "Okay, Jim." Finished injecting the morphine, she asked, "Has the pain gotten any better? This should work fairly quickly." 

"It's easing off," Jim said slowly, his words becoming thick and slurred again. "Bearable...now." 

Against his will, his eyes refused to stay open any longer. 

Watching closely, Trudy nodded in satisfaction as her patient appeared to slip back into sleep. 

"Thanks, Trudy," Sandburg said gratefully, absently continuing to lightly stroke his lover's hair. "He was in a lot of pain." 

"No problem," dismissed the nurse. She grinned at the younger man. "I see he woke up." Overlooking the slight blush on the beard-shadowed face, she queried, "Do you know what brought on the increased discomfort? Did he move suddenly? Did something upset him?" 

"No." Frowning, Sandburg recalled, "He'd only been awake a few minutes. We were talking.." The anthropologist abruptly broke off; the memory of what they'd been discussing rushed back. He finished hurriedly, "He was fine for a little while; it just seemed to hit all at once." 

Trudy gave him a shrewd look, but only nodded. Casting a swift, comprehensive glance over her patient to ensure all was well, she turned. "He should be all right now, Blair. But if something worries you--no matter how small--push that button, all right?" 

"Will do." Blair gave her another grateful smile and watched as she left to return to her other duties. 

Looking down at his lover's relaxed face, his smile faded. *Way to go, you fucking idiot! The man nearly gets killed, does get beaten half to death, and what happens when he finally wakes up? Is he greeted with kisses and expressions of joy? Hell, no! Jim's ever-mature lover goes and cries like a baby all over him. What the hell were you thinking, you mental midget? No, you weren't thinking, or you wouldn't have dumped all that shit on him. Jim has more than enough to deal with right now, moron. It's your guilt, your failure; it's time you handled your own problems for a change, instead of making Jim do it.* 

Leaning his head back, Blair tightly grasped his partner's hand and closed his eyes. _I'll deal with all that shit later,_ he decided wearily. *Right now, Jim's welfare has to come first.* His priorities firmly fixed, the anthropologist fell into an uneasy sleep. 

<<<>>>

Getting into his car in the PD garage, Joel started up the engine and backed out. He returned the wave from the guard at the garage security gate and, pulling onto the street, pointed the vehicle toward Cascade General. _Tonight's the last night,_ he mused; *last time I have to go to the hospital if I want to see Jim.* Finally, ten days after being rescued from Rafe's warehouse torture chamber, the doctors had determined Jim Ellison was well enough to go home. In the morning, Blair would use Ellison's Expedition to drive his partner home to the loft they shared. Joel was pleased at the news for two reasons: Ellison going home meant the injured man really was on the road to recovery; plus, with his partner at home, Blair Sandburg would be able to put aside his brutal schedule. 

During the entire ten days of Ellison's hospitalization, the grad student had lived a life that would have killed many a lesser man. Sandburg would spend the night in Ellison's hospital room, then leave in the early morning to go back to the loft to shower and shave. From there, he would head over to Rainier and spend the day fulfilling his university duties. Once those were finished--and the university hours would occasionally stretch until nine or ten at night--the anthropologist would return to Cascade General and his incarcerated partner. Taggart knew Ellison had tried numerous times to persuade the young man to go home at night, but Sandburg had resisted all arguments. Joel had a shrewd idea why Blair was being so stubborn; although Sandburg had not said a word on the topic since those few, short sentences at the warehouse, he knew the grad student was still feeling guilty over not having found Rafe's bolthole sooner. *Maybe now that Jim's going home, Blair can start to relax.* 

Braking for a red light, Joel wondered if a bit of good news would also help Sandburg's tense state of mind. Earlier that afternoon, Joel had received a phone call from Kumar, the Forensic DNA tech. The saliva sample from the bite on Langstrom's neck had delivered a readable DNA sample, although it had been small enough to need several rounds of duplication before it could be plotted. It had taken eleven days, but Kumar was now able to state with absolute assurance that the DNA sample from the bite on Langstrom's neck and the DNA sample taken from Rafe's hair brush matched in all respects. The final proof, if one had been needed, of the murderous secret the detective had been concealing. Feeling a warm glow of pride on Blair's behalf0-after all, the test had been the grad student's idea--Taggart had passed the good news on to Banks. The captain's only response had been a grunt of acknowledgment, but the sour look on the dark face had been much more eloquent. It was plain that Banks continued to bear a seething resentment toward Sandburg. 

Having learned the futility of trying to talk to Simon about this matter, Taggart had merely withdrawn and gone back to his office. Sighing as he sat back down, he'd again counseled patience for himself. Time was on his side, he had decided; he would give Banks all the time the other man needed to repair his damaged pride. Once Banks was over his initial anger and hurt, Joel knew he would become more amenable to a reasoned discourse. If Taggart continued to push at this point, Simon would only dig his heels in deeper and Joel could risk any future discussion on the matter. Reminding himself of this, the rotund captain had settled in to finish his shift. 

Turning left into the parking garage at Cascade General, Taggart slid his car into the first available slot and shut off the engine. Climbing out of the vehicle, he resolutely pushed all negative thoughts away and concentrated on the fact that Ellison was being released in the morning. Humming under his breath, he entered the hospital and made his way over to the elevators. Being as it was seven in the evening and prime visiting time, he had to wait for a car and then crowd into it with several other people. Disembarking on the fifth floor, he wended his way through the busy corridor. Dodging a cleaning cart parked near the nurse's station, Taggart gave a small wave to Trudy behind the desk, who smiled and waved back as she continued speaking on the phone. 

Turning the corner to Ellison's room, Joel's determined good cheer abruptly faded. Distant and muted because of the closed door, Sandburg's high, excited voice could still be heard, although the words themselves were indistinct. Closing his eyes in a momentary prayer that nothing unforeseen had occurred, Taggart pushed open the door. Once inside, he gave an unconscious sigh of relief. 

Sandburg was pacing up and down beside the bed, hands dancing in the air as a wide smile split his face. An affectionate grin in place, Ellison watched his partner from his seat in the recliner beside the bed. His pajamaclad right leg, held rigid by the light-weight metal immobilizer, was propped on a small stool. Fading green and yellow bruises were still visible along the strong jaw and left cheek. He had his right arm through his gray bathrobe, but it was only draped over his left shoulder. Beneath it, Taggart caught a glimpse of the cast on Ellison's left forearm sitting snugly in its own dark blue linen immobilizer which held the cop's fractured left shoulder securely against his body. 

The recovering detective looked up and spotted his colleague. "Come on in, Joel," he invited, waving the other man in with his right hand. "No need to lurk in the doorway." 

"Wasn't sure what was going on," admitted Taggart, letting the door swing closed behind him. "I could hear Blair halfway down the hall." 

"Ignore him," advised Ellison, grinning at his ebullient partner. "He's just a little excited at the moment." 

"Can you blame me?" demanded Sandburg, mock-glaring at Ellison. He couldn't hold the irked expression for long, however, and a grin once again stretched from ear to ear. "You can't tell me you're not just as pumped, man; I refuse to believe that." Turning to the African-American captain, he enthused, "This is just so cool, Joel! It's perfect--don't let Jim try to convince you otherwise." 

"I'm sure it is, Blair," soothed Joel, brown eyes sparkling. He winked at Ellison as he continued, "I completely agree with you...whatever it is you're talking about." 

"Oh, man, that's right; you couldn't have heard." Sandburg turned to Ellison. "Tell him, Jim!" 

"I will, Chief. If you'll give me a chance to put in more than two words," teased Jim. 

Sticking his tongue out at him, Sandburg collapsed on the bed. Sitting down beside him, Taggart turned to Ellison, an expectant look on his face. 

"Tom Davis, an old friend of mine from Vice, was here this afternoon," explained Ellison. "He's offered us his family's cabin over on Grave's Point for a month while I recuperate." 

"That's great, Jim!" declared Joel, a wide beam of his own breaking out. 

"Yeah, it is," admitted Ellison. A barely noticeable wince flitted across his face, and he shifted slightly in the chair. "There's the small problem of actually getting over to the island, but the rest of it sounds like paradise." 

Instantly at his partner's side, Sandburg nonchalantly went about rearranging the pillows behind Ellison's healing back as he said, "Told you, man; I've got that all covered. Maxie owes me a couple of favors, and I know he'll be glad to help out." 

Looking from one man to the other, Taggart questioned, "What small problem is that?" 

Blair glanced up from where he was fussing with the pillows. "Grave's Point is one of those privately-owned, environmentally-protected islands. No fossil-fuel cars or over-size vehicles allowed; only small, electrically-powered carts and such. The whole island is only fifteen miles long and six miles wide so cars aren't really necessary, anyway. If we can get ourselves over there, Sergeant Davis has arranged for a friend of his to meet us at the ferry with an electric cart that will be able to take Jim up to the cabin. As I told Jim, I'm sure my friend, Max Talbot, will be willing to take us over in his van." 

His back more comfortable now, Ellison smiled gratefully up at his partner as he said, "Once we're there, we shouldn't have any troubles. Tom says the cabin is fully stocked, and if we need something, Blair could always use one of their bicycles to go to the local market." 

"It seems Blair has transport under control and the cabin, itself, sounds ideal," Taggart decided. "You both need to unwind, and I know how you guys like to get away from Cascade to do that." 

"Yeah," agreed Blair, sitting back on the edge of the mattress. "Normally, we'd just go camping, but that's not possible this time." 

A thought occurred to the older cop and he asked, "Are you going to be able to get away, Blair? What about school?" 

"Oh, yeah, no problem," Sandburg answered carelessly. He waved a dismissive hand. "The last of the Finals were last week; all I'm doing this week is grading, and then posting, those grades. I'll have all that done by tomorrow afternoon, Thursday morning, at the very latest; and I'd already decided to take the summer off." 

"Sounds to me like you guys are headed over to Grave's Point for a month, then," Joel stated. "It'll be great to have four whole weeks to just kick back and concentrate on getting better, Jim." 

"Yeah." Ellison hesitated a moment, then queried, "Is everything all right, Joel? I mean, Shirley's okay, isn't she? You're not catching any flak about the shooting?" 

Slightly taken aback at the concerned expression on his friend's face, Taggart just blinked at him for a few moments. Sandburg also looked surprised at the abrupt change of subject and mood. 

"Shirley's just fine, thank you. She's sorry she can't make it up here tonight, but it's her monthly church ladies meeting. She told me to give you guys her love." 

During Ellison's hospitalization, Shirley Taggart had made a point of stopping by at least once each day for a little mother-henning and cosseting of the two men she called `my adopted boys'. Caught between embarrassment and enjoyment, Ellison and Sandburg had come to the conclusion that it was probably best for them to just go with the flow. Neither one felt equal to the task of arguing with the five foot, three inch, one-hundred-pounds-dripping-wet dynamo. 

"As for the job," Joel continued, "no problems there. Both of the investigating commissions are almost done. IAD will wrap up in a couple of days, and Chief Warren told me the independent one from the mayor's office should also be finished before the end of the week. Of course, he's not allowed to tell me anything specific, but Warren said he wasn't expecting any bombshells." 

"Good, good." An expression of relief came over Ellison's face. 

"What made you think something was wrong, Jim?" Joel asked curiously. 

"Yeah," put in Blair. "I'd kind of like to know what upset you, too, man." He was looking at his partner a little worriedly. 

"I'm not upset, Chief," Jim hastened to reassure him. "I just wondered if something was upsetting Joel." He turned his attention back to his fellow cop. "When you came in here, you had the strangest look on your face. It made me wonder if something had happened to Shirley or at the PD." 

"Oh, that." Joel chuckled. "That was Blair's fault." 

"My fault?!" Mouth agape, Blair looked back and forth between the two older men. "I haven't done anything!" 

"I know you haven't, Blair." The corner of Taggart's mouth kept wanting to twitch. 

"Well, then, why did you say it was my fault?" 

"I could hear your voice before I even got to Jim's door," explained Taggart. "You sounded upset." 

"Oh, I see." Blair gave a relieved grin. "You were afraid Jim and I were having a fight." 

Taggart shook his head. "That wasn't it." 

"Then what, man?" 

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the look of frustrated puzzlement on the younger man's face, Joel gave an attentivelywatching Ellison another wink. 

"Come on, Joel," begged Sandburg. "You're making me crazy here!" 

"Well, I was a bit scared." Struggling to keep his face solemn, Joel went on gravely, "I didn't know what was going on in here. I wasn't sure if I should open the door, or just stand aside. After all, I didn't want to chance a repeat of last week!" He burst into open laughter at Sandburg's dumbfounded expression. 

"Oh, you...I mean." stuttered the grad student, trapped between anger and laughter. "Jeez, Joel; I'm sorry, already, okay? How many times do I have to say it?!" 

Last Thursday evening, Blair had returned to the hospital after an exasperating day at the university. Turning the bend in the corridor, he'd caught a glimpse of a figure slipping into his partner's room. Since the figure had been dressed in street clothes, it was immediately obvious the person was not a member of the hospital staff. Breaking into a run, Sandburg burst into the hospital room just as a bright flash went off. Shaking his head to clear the dancing sparkles from his eyes, Sandburg had seen a big, blond man reach for Ellison's shoulder, clearly intending to shake the slumbering detective awake. Unfortunately, he had been reaching for Ellison's left shoulder. 

Sandburg's vision had gone blood-red. Growling loudly, he'd closed the distance between the door and Ellison's bed in two, huge strides; grabbing the back of the man's black sweater, he viciously yanked the intruder away from his sleeping lover and hurled him from the bed. Abruptly awakened by the resounding thud of the man hitting the wall, Jim had watched in shocked astonishment as his enraged partner stalked over to the stunned intruder. Sandburg wrapped both fists in the dark sweater and hauled the man bodily to his feet; he then physically tossed the stranger--who was several inches taller, and clearly outweighed the grad student by at least forty to fifty pounds--out the hospital room door. Another deafening thump sounded, indicating the man had impacted with the far wall of the corridor. It was accompanied by the musical tinkling of breaking glass. 

Luckily, Taggart had arrived at the hospital just moments after Sandburg. He'd heard the commotion in Ellison's room and was hurrying toward it, when a man came flying out the open door. Taggart would later swear the airborne hack had missed him by bare inches. In any case, the Bomb Squad captain had been close enough to prevent a furious Sandburg from completing his mission of mayhem on his quaking victim. A quick mention of Ellison, and the raging anthropologist had immediately backed off, returning to his bemused partner; who, wisely, let his lover fuss and fret over him until the younger man came down from his adrenaline-induced high. By the time Taggart entered the room after dealing with the intruder, Sandburg was sitting in the recliner by the head of the bed, both hands tightly gripping Ellison's right one. 

The stranger, Joel informed them, was one Carl Madsen, ace photojournalist for Coast To Coast News, one of the seamier weekly tabloids. Watching, waiting and listening--to the uniforms who patrolled the outside of the hospital--the intrepid reporter had learned Ellison's room number, then discovered the best way to sneak into the building. He was determined to get exclusive photos of the injured detective, along with Ellison's side of the sensational story. Madsen had peeked into the hospital room; upon seeing Ellison was alone, he'd decided to go for the interview before anyone could walk in on him. Taggart had then gone on to gleefully tell the partners that Madsen--kicking and screaming about his broken camera lens and confiscated film--was currently on his way downtown, having been charged with trespassing and stalking a police officer. 

Later that evening, after Blair had calmed down enough to make a snack-run to the cafeteria, Taggart had admitted to Ellison that he'd been truly worried earlier. Shivering as he described the look of incandescent rage on Blair's normally sweet-tempered face, Joel had confessed that he'd been afraid he wouldn't be able to stop Sandburg from seriously hurting Madsen. Ellison, however, had not been quite as surprised as Joel at Blair's uncharacteristic display. While Sandburg had never before gotten physically violent with anyone, Ellison had had to listen to Banks complain for hours on end about the younger man's implacable insistence on searching for his partner during the Colonel Oliver affair; Jim also had the recent memories of Blair's constant, protective hovering while he had been temporarily blinded by the Golden. Taggart, of course, was totally unaware of the Sentinel/Guide sub-text, but Jim was quickly learning that the Blessed Protector genes were not limited to the Sentinel side of the partnership. The Sentinel may protect his Guide, but the Guide also protected his Sentinel--woe be to anyone foolish enough to challenge a Guide with an injured, vulnerable Sentinel. Add to that axiom the fact that Jim was also Blair's lover, and the situation became completely understandable. 

Remembering the incident, Ellison was also helplessly laughing, although he strove to keep it down to chuckles out of deference to his ribs. "Look out, Chief," he managed to gasp, right arm wrapped around his chest. "You've got a reputation." 

"They've probably got warning notices out all over the country," Joel said, laughing anew at the scowl on the anthropologist's face. 

"That so wasn't my fault, and you know it!" Sandburg defended himself. After a pause of a few seconds, he had to admit, "Well, yeah, okay, so it was my fault, but I didn't, like, plan it or anything. It just happened!" 

His aggrieved expression only made the two older men laugh harder. 

"Very funny, man; both of you," he grumbled. _Great, just great,_ he thought sullenly. *I bet that stupid story has spread all over the PD by now; just one more reason for the guys to laugh at me. I bet no one would find it the least bit funny if Jim had done it.* 

"Come on, Sandburg," cajoled Jim. "No need to pout." 

"I'm not pouting," Sandburg said sulkily. 

Exchanging an amused glance with Joel, Ellison said, "Look, Chief, I'm sorry I was laughing at you. I'll make it up to you." 

Unable to stay annoyed when faced with those sparkling aquamarine eyes, Blair felt his resolve weakening. "How do you plan to do that?" he asked warily. *No need to let him know that I'm, like, a total slut here; that all he has to do is smile at me, and I'll cave.* 

Not at all deceived by his partner's suspicious attitude, Ellison suggested, "How about I treat you to dinner from that new East Indian place you've been chattering about? Will that do it?' 

His facade of mistrust falling aside, Blair beamed. "Oh, man; that would be great, Jim! When can we do it?" 

"How about tonight?" offered Ellison. "Of course, you'd have to run out and get it, but you could use my credit card." 

"No problem." His usual good humor restored, Blair bounced off the bed. He reached into the drawer in the bedside table and drew out Ellison's wallet. Pulling out the credit card, he asked, "You want anything special, Jim? Or do you want me to order for you?" 

"You can order for me, Chief. Nothing too spicy, though," Jim warned. "Remember, those damn antibiotics tend to leave me a little queasy." He looked over at Taggart. "You want something, Joel? My treat." 

"No thanks, Jim." Joel shook his head. "I'm at the age where that sort of food is just heartburn in the making. I'll pass." 

"You don't know what you're missing, man." Sandburg grinned at him. Heading toward the door, he turned back and said, "This place is over by Rainier, so I'll be thirty to forty minutes, Jim. Don't panic if I'm not back right away." 

"I never panic, Sandburg," Ellison said repressively. 

"Yeah, right," snorted Sandburg. "And pig's fly." 

"He's got your number, Jim," chuckled Taggart, watching the door close behind the grad student. 

"Yeah," sighed Ellison. "Smart-mouthed brat." 

Using his hearing to monitor Sandburg's progress, Ellison waited until his lover had left the elevator on the ground floor before looking over at Taggart and asking bluntly, "What the hell is going on between Blair and Simon?" 

Caught flat-footed by the out-of-the-blue question, the older man had no time to prepare a glib answer. Knowing that his face was giving everything away, Joel decided to go on the offensive. "If you think something is wrong between them, why not ask them?" He couldn't meet his friend's eyes. 

"I don't think something is wrong; I _know_ something is wrong," Ellison retorted grimly. "I can count on one hand the number of times Simon has been up to visit me. That's not like him; and don't try to tell me it's because he's still dealing with the fallout from this shit." Jim ruthlessly over-rode Taggart's expected defense. Seeing the other man wilt, he eased his tone. "God, Joel, just tell me, will you? It's obvious something's happened. Whenever Simon does show, Blair vanishes and won't come back until he's gone. They never speak to each other; hell, they won't even look at each other! It's making me nuts." 

Desperately trying to deflect the question, Joel repeated, "Why don't you ask them what's wrong?" 

"Simon stays for less than ten minutes, and he only wants to talk about the case or station gossip. Every time I try to switch the conversation to something personal, he makes excuses and leaves. I did ask Blair about it last night." 

"What did he say?" Curious despite himself, Joel glanced over at Ellison. 

"He went so pale, I thought he was going to fall over. Then, he told me that Simon has something important he wants to talk to me about, but is holding off until I get out of the hospital because he, Blair, asked him to do so. Blair won't say another word on the subject; when I try to press, it just upsets him." 

"Jim, I..." Taggart got up from his perch on the bed and started to pace. "Blair has never asked me not to, but... I'm not sure I'm the right one to be telling you." 

"Right now, you're the only one who can tell me. Please, Joel," implored Ellison. "I've got to know. Whatever it is, it's bad." Taking as deep a breath as possible with his injured ribs, he looked the other man square in the eye. "Has Simon found out that Blair and I are lovers?" 

To Ellison's unspoken relief, his colleague exhibited neither revulsion nor amazement at the bald statement, although his air of uneasy guilt increased. 

"Joel. Please." 

Head down, Taggart paced for several more minutes then, visibly squaring his shoulders, he looked desperately at the recuperating man. "Yeah, Simon knows. He said he guessed by how Blair reacted when you were grabbed." 

Closing his eyes briefly, Ellison asked quietly, "How bad was it?" 

"I wasn't in his office when he confronted Blair." Sinking back down on the bed, Taggart shook his head miserably. "I thought I knew Simon Banks; after all this time, I was sure I really did. But I have no idea who this man is, Jim. He's not the same person who's been as close to me as my own brother." 

"Oh, god." 

"Simon wouldn't listen to a word Blair said about the case; he dismissed any evidence and conclusion that came from him. He belittled and ignored Blair, right out in the bullpen, in full view of everyone. If Warren hadn't insisted that Blair remain on this case, Simon was going to ban him from the PD and revoke his observer's status. God forgive me for saying this, but if this case had been left up to Simon, Rafe would've killed you. According to Simon, the killer couldn't be Rafe--no matter what the evidence was saying--simply because Blair insisted it was him. Blair was just a queer, trying to ruin yet another good cop." 

"But...but my report. I put it all in writing." 

"Simon accused Blair of forging the whole thing." 

Taggart raised his head, and Ellison was shocked to see tears in the ebony eyes. "Simon thinks Blair is trying to corrupt you and ruin your career. I tried to tell him that he shouldn't interfere; I mean, I had my suspicions, but I didn't know for sure at the time. He wouldn't listen to me. Simon believes you wouldn't tolerate that sort of degenerate--his word, not mine--behavior directed toward you. The `inappropriate' feelings are all on Blair's side, and you're going to shower him with gratitude when he tells you." 

The older cop heaved an unsteady breath. "Simon plans to tell you all about Blair, and then pull the kid's credentials. He says he doesn't care how loudly Warren will yell about it. According to him, it's only a matter of time before some other cop becomes suspicious of Blair, and he doesn't want you tarred with the same brush." Taggart gave a small snort. "My Lord, if Simon only knew." 

"Only knew what?" 

"That he's practically the last one to figure it out." Joel grinned at him. 

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Ellison chuckled. "I thought so." 

Taggart's grin faded. "Simon won't admit it--won't see it--but he's lost a lot of respect from the other guys in the bullpen because of the way he's handled this situation. The rest of the guys, Jim...they supported Blair unstintingly, even when it meant disobeying a direct order from Simon." 

"Will you thank them for me? Let them know how grateful I am they treated Blair with the respect and dignity he deserves?" 

"I know they don't expect anything, but I'll tell them." Face falling once more, Taggart bit his lower lip and questioned, "Jim, what are we going to do? About Simon, I mean?" 

Eyes once more closed while he tried to moderate his respiration, Ellison didn't immediately answer. His ribs, leg and shoulder were starting to hurt badly, but he knew it was because his muscles were taut with tension. The cop was also conscious of a confusing mixture of rage and hurt betrayal toward Banks. He, too, like Joel, had thought he'd known Simon, had considered the Major Crime captain one of his closest friends. Now, he wondered if he'd ever really known the man. 

*Oh, god, Chief; I'm sorry. So sorry you had to deal with that bullshit on your own. I'll make it right, babe; I promise you that.* 

Once he had his breathing under control, Ellison re-opened his eyes. "What are we going to do about Simon?" he echoed coldly. "Well, I don't know about you, Joel, but I'm going to resign. I want nothing else to do with the man, and I don't want Blair exposed to any more of his bigotry." 

Joel nodded slowly. "I-I thought you'd say that." Running a shaking hand over his face, he burst out, "I'm sorry, Jim." 

"What for?" Jim looked at him, bewildered. "You haven't done anything, except be a good friend to Blair and me. I really appreciate that. Don't think you have to apologize on Simon's behalf; you're not responsible for him. He's a grown man and responsible for his own actions." 

"I know, but... Taggart trailed off. "I just feel like I should've been able to stop this somehow." 

"Sounds to me like you did all you could," noted Ellison. Taking another measured breath, he asked, "Will you do me a couple of favors, Joel?" 

"Sure," Taggart answered promptly. "Just name them." 

"Don't let on to Blair that I know about this mess, and that I'm going to resign, okay? I'll tell him myself." 

"No problem. Anything else?" 

"Yeah. Don't tell Banks I'm getting out of here in the morning." 

"All right." Joel looked puzzled. "Can I ask why?" 

"If he thinks I'm still in here, he's not going to be in a rush to tell me his news. Hopefully, if he follows his current pattern, he won't be coming to see me until Friday evening. Maybe by then, I can think of some way to get out of the loft and go into Central; head Banks off at the pass, so to speak. That way, Blair won't have to sit through a nasty scene." 

"Okay." Deliberately changing the subject, Joel questioned, "Have you and Blair figured out how to get you up to the loft tomorrow?" 

Grateful to the older man for lightening the atmosphere, Jim grinned. "Yeah. He went to the building superintendent and made sure the damn elevator was working. That was the easy part." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Because of this knee, I can't climb the inside stairs. That means I'm going to be stuck sleeping on Blair's old futon." 

Chuckling at the disgusted look on Ellison's face, Joel soothed, "At least it's only going to be for two nights. After that, you'll be at Davis' cabin." 

"Yeah, I know. I'm just not sure I can handle those two nights. I don't know how the hell Blair ever managed to sleep on that thing. The few times I tried it out, it gave me a backache that hurt worse than my back does now. I swear, a rock is softer and has less bumps!" 

Patting Ellison's left thigh, Taggart tried to project the proper air of sympathy, even as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. 

<<<>>>

A sudden gust of wind-driven rain caused the man bent over his desk to lift his head and glance out the window. Grimacing at the hard knots in his neck and shoulders from too many hours of continuous paperwork, Simon rubbed at his sore neck with one large hand as he glumly took in the darkness outside. _Great,_ he thought morosely, *another late night. At least tonight should be the last one.* At long last, the dual investigations concerning the Rafe debacle--the IAD scrutiny and the independent commission authorized by the mayor--had been completed and officially closed. An eerie feeling of being observed crept up his spine and he whipped his head around, catching sight of a silent figure standing just inside his door. 

A wide grin split his face. "Jim!" he exclaimed delightedly. "Damn it, man, what are you doing out in weather like this? Sit yourself down; it can't be good for you to put too much weight on your knee. Nobody told me you were out of the hospital!" 

"I got out yesterday morning; I asked Joel not to tell you." 

Carrying his upper body somewhat stiffly, and leaning heavily on his single metal crutch, Jim Ellison slowly limped over to stand before the big oak desk. There was no answering smile on the grim face as, without speaking, he reached into his jacket pocket. Silently, he deposited an envelope onto the deskpad. Smile fading, a non-comprehending Banks watched as Ellison then laid his service revolver next to the envelope, immediately followed by his badge. 

That last item broke the police captain's paralysis. "Jim! What the hell.?" 

"My written resignation is in the envelope, sir." Ellison's voice and face were impassive. "As per PD policy, I'm also turning in my weapon and my shield. Since I'm on medical leave at the present, I checked with Human Resources and was informed that this time would count toward the four weeks' mandatory notice I'm required to give before resigning." 

"R-Resigning?" Blinking at the objects on his desk, Banks demanded weakly, "But why?" 

Something in the quality of the silence which followed that question made him glance up. His eyes meeting Ellison's, he froze at the contemptuous fury radiating from the icy blue eyes. There was no trace of any emotion, however, in the big detective's voice as he replied, "I can't work for, or with, someone who treats my partner with less respect than he would show a convicted child molester." 

Banks opened his mouth to protest, but Ellison continued levelly, "If you don't believe that reason gives me enough cause to resign; you can use this one, instead: Your personal prejudices damn near got me killed. How the hell can you expect me to ever trust you again?" 

Banks' hair-trigger temper snapped. "Now just a damn minute here, Ellison!" *Damn it, I knew I shouldn't have trusted that fucking faggot to keep his mouth shut! Don't upset Jim while he's in the hospital, my ass. All he really wanted was time to play on Jim's sympathies. Now he's gone and twisted everything.* The police captain shot to his feet and, hands on his hips, glared at the other man. "I don't know what bullshit Sandburg's been feeding you, but I won't tolerate this attitude!" 

"No, you won't tolerate anything that tells you something you don't want to hear, will you?" It was obvious the question was rhetorical. "As for the other matter," retorted the Sentinel, "Sandburg hasn't said a word to me on the subject. I had to browbeat the whole sorry story out of Joel. He's the one who drove me over here tonight; he's out in the bullpen now, clearing out my desk. Blair's back at the loft; he thinks Joel and I are picking up some Chinese for dinner. I was on some pretty heavy pain killers in the hospital; it took me several days to realize you weren't there as often as you normally would be. That didn't bother me at first because I figured you'd be up to your neck in damage control. Then, I started noticing something peculiar--every time you'd come to visit, Blair would make an excuse to leave the room and wouldn't come back in until after you'd left. You two never spoke to each other, or made eye contact. I thought I was imagining things, but it happened every damn time. 

"You didn't seem to want to talk about anything but station gossip, so I finally tackled Sandburg about what the hell was going on. All he would say is that you had something important to tell me after I got out of the hospital. He refused to say anything else, except to mention that he'd asked you to wait on your news until I was at home, and that you'd agreed. Tuesday evening, after Blair had left to get us something to eat, I asked Joel if he knew what the hell was going on. I could tell he did by the look on his face. He was reluctant, but I insisted. He finally told me everything." 

Sweat breaking out on his forehead, Banks felt his stomach sink to his feet. _My god, Joel...what have you done?!_ "You're awfully swift to judge me," he noted hoarsely. "Aren't you even going to give me a chance to tell my side? To explain?" 

"Weren't you damn swift to judge Blair?" shot back Ellison. "I'll make you a deal," he offered calmly. "I'll give you a chance to explain--once you've publicly apologized to Blair; out in the bullpen, for your insulting behavior towards him." 

Simon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

Ellison nodded slightly, a sardonic smile lifting one corner of his mouth. "I thought not." 

"Jim." Brain whirling, Banks feverishly tried to form a coherent selfdefense. *This has to be some kind of bad joke. My oldest friend just shafted me with a bunch of half-truths, and now another close friend wants to walk out because I refuse to treat his queer roommate like a god. Maybe I fell asleep at my desk, and this whole nightmare is just that--a nightmare.* Pure astonishment written large all over him, he blurted out, "You can't seriously be thinking of giving up your career--our friendship--for Sandburg?!" 

"If he would ask it of me, I would give up my honor for him." 

That astoundingly simple remark effectively deprived Banks of any breath for a comeback. 

"I can't trust you anymore, sir." Ellison's voice remained level, but steely. "You refused to listen to my partner, or back him up. I think it's best for everyone involved if I just resign." 

"Damn it, Sandburg is not your partner!" blustered Simon, distantly wondering why he was quibbling over that one, tiny technicality. 

"Oh, but he is, sir." A joyful smile lit the chiseled face. "For the last three months, Blair has been my partner in all respects. After I almost lost him from that damn Golden overdose, I couldn't stand the thought that he might someday die, never knowing how much I love him. I couldn't believe my luck when he told me that he loved me, too. It's completely baffling to me how you could assume Blair was the only one involved; there's been days I've been sure it was written all over my face." 

Knees suddenly giving way, Banks dropped into his desk chair. His overwhelmed brain was slow to absorb what Ellison had just told him. 

"Not very observant, are you?" came the cool, mocking inquiry. "Joel said he tried to warn you against interfering, but you refused to listen to him. Rhonda, Joel, they guessed it almost immediately. The entire Major Crime bullpen, along with half of the damn station, even had a bet going on it. I'll have to ask Joel who finally won the pot. Hell, even Rafe finally figured it out; why else would he suddenly come after me?" 

As Banks sat there, staring numbly at him, Jim Ellison gave a minuscule nod. Turning, he limped awkwardly back to the door and opened it. 

"Good-bye, Captain Banks." 

The door was shut firmly behind him. 

<<<>>>

Ellison opened the loft door to Sandburg muttering fiercely to himself. Upon hearing the door, the younger man turned away from staring out the balcony window. Relief flooded across his face. 

"Sorry to take so long, Chief," apologized the Sentinel, standing to one side to allow a take-out bag burdened Taggart to enter. As the older man deposited the numerous bags onto the cooking island, Ellison explained, "The restaurant was packed." A booming crash of thunder almost drowned out his next words. "The damn weather didn't help, either; you can hardly see fifty feet in front of your face." 

Which was the absolute--if not complete--truth. He had every intention of telling his partner what he'd done, but not at this time. Blair was still too pale and tired for Ellison's liking. He knew for a fact that the prior night was the first time since the night before Jim was kidnapped, that Sandburg had given in and actually gone to bed for the night. Even then, the exhausted anthropologist had roused frequently, worriedly coming downstairs to make sure his lover was sleeping comfortably and that his pain was under control. 

"You couldn't have called?" grumbled Sandburg. Going into the kitchen, he started pulling out plates and glasses. "The way that rain's coming down, I was beginning to think you'd been washed out to sea or something!" 

Ellison shrugged with his right shoulder; the left was still too painful to consider any movement. "The cell battery needs charging." Slipping out of his wet jacket, he hung it on one of the hooks beside the door. He'd reached out to take Joel's when the other man shook his head. 

"Thanks for the offer, guys; but I should head on home," Joel said. 

"Your sure, man?" questioned Blair, unloading the fragrant bags of food. He surveyed the multitude of cartons and shook his head. "We've got way enough here. You know you're more than welcome to stay." 

"I'm sure, but thanks again for the invitation." Joel smiled. "Storms always make Shirley a little nervous; when I can, I like to be there with her when the weather turns bad." 

"I can understand that." Jim limped over and opened the door. "You get home and take care of your wife. Drive carefully, okay?" 

As Taggart was leaving, Sandburg called after him, "Thanks for picking up dinner, Joel. Give Shirley our love." 

"I will," promised Taggart. He gave both men an admonishing look. "You two eat, then get some sleep, you hear? You both look as if you're going to fall over any minute." 

"Yes, Dad," teased Jim, a half-grin on his face. He lowered his voice, saying softly, "Thanks for tonight, Joel. I really appreciate it; I'll stop by sometime for the stuff out of my desk." 

A faint look of sadness came over the round face. "I understand why you did it, Jim, but I wish..." Joel, too, kept his voice down to prevent Sandburg from overhearing the conversation. 

"I know, Joel, but it was necessary." Jim laid his good hand on his friend's shoulder. "No regrets, okay? Let's just look ahead to the rest of our lives." 

"All right, Jim." Taggart shook his head and started down the hall. "See you guys tomorrow morning. What time should we be here?" 

Although Blair's fellow TA, Max Talbot, had indeed volunteered his time and van, Jim had been extremely uneasy about accepting the offer. Blair had told him too many anecdotes about the vehicle. It was so ancient that Talbot had become accustomed to losing bits and pieces off the body as he drove down the street; and, according to Blair, it only started when the Engine God had received multiple sacrifices of oil and new spark plug wires. Ellison disliked asking for more favors, but there had been no other choice. On their way to the police station that evening, he'd asked Taggart if there was any way he could take them over to the island in his wife's van. Joel had assured him that it wouldn't be a hardship; he was not scheduled to be on duty the next day as it was his and Shirley's wedding anniversary. When Ellison had started to backpedal, saying they could always go with Talbot, Joel had shaken his head and firmly told the younger man that both he and his wife would be there to see them off. 

"The ferry leaves at eleven, so ten is good." 

Taggart nodded, then waved a farewell as he headed for the elevator. 

Closing the loft door and locking it, Ellison turned around just as Blair pulled a pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator. 

"I wanted a beer," the Sentinel protested. 

"Not while you're still on the meds," Sandburg said sternly. Placing the pitcher on the table amongst the cartons of food, he then pointedly pulled out a table chair. His silence said it all as he looked from the chair to Ellison, and then back again. 

Sighing, Ellison limped over and carefully sat down. Sandburg made no move to assist, but he did hover close by. Once the older man was safely seated, Sandburg propped the crutch within easy reach and sat down himself. Instead of sitting across from his partner as he usually did, the anthropologist seated himself to Ellison's left. This way, as Blair had explained the prior evening, there would be less chance that Ellison's bad right leg would accidentally get bumped during the course of a meal. Taking up the pitcher again, he poured some tea for both of them as Ellison began opening the food containers. 

"Oh, before I forget, Chief; I asked Joel if he could take us over to Grave's Point. He and Shirley will be here around ten," Jim told him, dishing an impressive amount of food from various containers onto his plate. "God, I'm starved. You know, if people really want to lose weight, I figure all they have to do is check into a hospital for a month. That food would kill anyone's appetite." 

Sandburg chuckled and reached for the carton of Manchurian beef. "I'll call Maxie tonight and leave a message. It really was nice of him to offer." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim watched in approval as Blair ladled a goodly amount of food onto his own plate. The anthropologist had a distressing tendency to skip meals when he was highly stressed and would, therefore, sometimes lose more weight than he could safely afford. This seemingly self-destructive habit had driven Ellison to blasphemy and potential ulcers until he'd realized that Sandburg wasn't deliberately trying to endanger his health. When he got bogged down with school duties and other projects, the grad student simply forgot to eat. From that point onward, the Sentinel had made it one of his jobs to ensure that his Guide missed as few meals as possible. He'd continued that self-imposed task even while hospitalized; he'd nagged and cajoled the younger man into smuggling in food for his suffering partner. Sandburg had just rolled his eyes at Ellison's antics, but he'd complied with each wistful request for a home-cooked favorite. Then, when Ellison had the delightfully-smelling food spread out before him, he would invariably insist there was too much for only one person and that Blair had to help him eat it. Toward the end of his hospital stay, Ellison was sure that his partner had become aware of his strategy, but he didn't care. Blair had only lost a few pounds this time. 

For the next few minutes, the only noises in the loft were the sounds of utensils scraping food out of a carton and contented chewing. Hunger finally assuaged, Ellison laid down his chop sticks and reached for the pitcher of iced tea to refill their glasses. 

"Thanks, man," mumbled Sandburg around a mouthful of spicy shrimp and noodles. Swallowing, he used his chop sticks to point at three, small brown bottles sitting by Ellison's plate. "Don't forget to take your pills, Jim." 

Ellison shot him an exasperated look. Heaving a martyred sigh, he reached for the first bottle. Luckily, Sandburg had had the foresight to ask the pharmacist for easy-open bottles, so it was relatively easy for the temporarily one-handed Ellison to just pop the lids off. He retrieved one pill each from two of the bottles and, tossing them into his mouth, swallowed them with a gulp of tea. "Jesus, Chief," he complained, "I swear that damn antibiotic tastes worse than moldy bread!" He hurriedly took another drink in an attempt to get rid of the awful taste. 

"Do I even want to know how you came by knowledge of that unique flavor?" queried Sandburg. "Only two pills?" He nodded questioningly at the third bottle. 

"I took the muscle relaxant and antibiotic. I want to hold off on the pain pill until we go to bed." 

"You sure?" Blair regarded him doubtfully. "Don't let yourself hurt, Jim. I know you don't like how the pain pill makes you so drowsy, but..." 

"I'm sure, Chief," reassured Ellison. "Honestly, I'm feeling pretty good at the moment; I'm not having any trouble keeping the pain dial under control. Most of the discomfort now is from muscle spasms, and the relaxant helps best with those. I want to watch the Jags game without worrying that I'm going to fall asleep halfway through it." 

"Well, you know best, I guess," conceded Sandburg. He didn't look particularly convinced, but had evidently decided not to push it. Getting up from the table, he cocked an eyebrow at his lover. "Want to head for the sofa now? The pre-game will have started, but tip-off isn't for another twenty minutes. They're starting at nine tonight since the Jags are at home." 

"Sounds good to me," decided Ellison. Bracing his right hand on the table, he used his left leg to laboriously push himself upright. Taking the crutch Sandburg was holding out, he fitted his upper arm through the metal brace and cautiously put a small portion of his weight onto his right leg. Looking up, he caught the fleeting look of anxious pain Blair couldn't quite disguise. 

"Hey, hey...what's all this, huh?" he chided softly. Putting all his weight onto his left leg, he lifted his hand from the crutch handle and cupped Blair's cheek. "Stop it right now, Chief," Jim ordered gently. "The worst is over; you know that. There's nothing left to worry about." 

"I know," Blair admitted, eyes huge and dark. Careful not to jar the heavy linen bracing holding Ellison's fractured shoulder and arm against his body, he laid his hand on the broad chest. Running the fingers of his other hand lightly over the fading yellow and green bruises along the side of the stubborn jaw, he continued softly, "I know that, Jim; I really do. It's just...I'm going to need some time to process this, you know?" 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden flash of memory. His lover's unmoving form dangling limply in the handcuffs, the rivers of blood coursing down his back and chest. "I should've found you sooner; damn it to hell, I should've found you sooner!" The last came out as a thick rasp. 

Ellison used the hand on Sandburg's cheek to pull the trembling figure close against his right side; the shorter man immediately grabbed the back of his lover's shirt, burrowing closer. Jim wrapped his right arm around the wide shoulders and held him tightly. Resting his face against the luxuriant curls tickling his cheek, he scolded gently, "How many times have I told you not to do this to yourself, huh? My god, the fact that you discovered which warehouse he used in only thirty hours is a pretty fucking amazing piece of police work!" 

"I still wasn't quick enough," protested a shaky voice. "He'd already hurt you." 

"Yeah," Jim said evenly. "I won't deny that I really would rather not have gone through that. But I knew you were coming for me, Chief; I knew it as surely as I knew my own name." 

Ellison knew he would never tell his lover how he'd given up hope of being rescued alive; how he'd tried to force Rafe into killing him quickly. Already feeling excessively guilty over his imagined failure, Blair would never recover from the blow to his self-confidence if he learned about Ellison's moment of weakness. 

Silence reigned for several minutes. 

Pulling back slightly, Blair met the tender, yet stern gaze. "I was so scared, Jim," he confessed hoarsely. "I just kept seeing those damn pictures of his other victims." An involuntary shudder ran through him. Releasing Ellison's shirt, he brought a hand up to cup the bruised cheek. "I had to find you," he said fiercely, an intense look coming into his eyes. "I just love you so much, man. There's nothing without you." 

To Blair's ever-lasting astonishment, a shimmer of moisture appeared in the beautiful cornflower blue eyes. 

"I know, Chief," Jim acknowledged huskily. "Although I will never understand why, I know that you do. I love you, too." 

"Good." Blair smiled gently. Reaching up, he pressed a soft kiss to the square jaw. "Now that we have that little matter settled, let's get you over to the sofa and off that knee. The game will be starting soon." 

Dizzied by the abrupt change of subject and mood, Ellison didn't protest when his elbow was taken and he was steered into the living area. He resisted sitting, however. "Is the matter settled, Chief?" he questioned, fixing the other man with an steady look. 

Knowing exactly what Jim meant, Sandburg shrugged. "Not yet," he said honestly. "But I'll work on it. I promise." 

"Good enough." 

Bending down, Ellison laid a swift, possessive kiss on the tempting mouth. When breathing became mandatory, he pulled back and ran a thumb softly across the reddened, swollen lips. Grinning widely at the dazed expression in the azure eyes, he innocently asked, "Hold my crutch for me?" 

"What?" Sandburg's mind was obviously still focused on the kiss. 

"Will you hold my crutch so I can sit down?" Ellison repeated patiently. 

"Huh? Oh, yeah!" 

Brain synapses firing once more, Sandburg obediently reached for the crutch. Once Ellison had gingerly sat down close against the sofa arm, the grad student laid the metal brace on the coffee table and bent down to grasp the Sentinel's right ankle. He glanced up through a fall of curls. "Ready whenever you are, man." 

Grabbing the back of the sofa with his right hand, Ellison took a deep breath and checked the status of his pain dial. "Let's do it, Chief." 

Carefully lifting the immobilizer-wrapped leg, Blair gently slid the injured limb onto the sofa, placing it against the back of the furniture. Pulling on the sofa back with his hand, Ellison was able to pivot his upper body as his leg was moved so that he ended up sitting with his back to the sofa arm. Sandburg then grabbed the throw pillows and, following the instructions given by the hospital physical therapist, tucked four of them about the lower part of the immobilizer to prevent Ellison's right leg from accidentally turning inward. Straightening, he moved up the sofa with the two remaining pillows. Again pulling on the sofa back with his right hand, Ellison managed to lean his torso slightly forward as the younger man quickly tucked the pillows between the sofa arm and his still-painful back. 

Easing himself cautiously against the yielding pillows with an uneven sigh, the Sentinel closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing slowly and regularly. A warm hand rubbed his upper back and neck, soothing him further. Within minutes, the sharp, stabbing pains from his ribs and knee had faded to a more tolerable level. "It's better now," he announced. He felt the air currents shift behind him and knew that Sandburg had moved. Opening his eyes, he met the concerned look with a grin. "It's eased up," he reassured. "I'm fine now, honestly." 

Sandburg nodded, accepting the verdict. Handing the TV remote to his partner, he said, "I'm going to clean up. Do you want a bottle of water when I come back?" 

"Yeah, thanks, Chief." 

As the anthropologist headed back into the kitchen, Ellison thumbed on the TV and quickly switched to ESPN. Most of his attention was on the list of scores being read, but he dimly heard Sandburg make a quick phone call to Talbot before he started clearing the table. A quarter of an hour later, just as the ESPN anchors reported they were cutting to Cascade for the game, Sandburg was back. He handed a bottle of water to his Sentinel, then placed his own on the coffee table. Winking at his lover, he gracefully sank down onto the floor. Propping his back against the edge of the sofa, Blair started a mental countdown. Four, three, two...he grinned as he felt a large hand start to play with his curls. Even before they'd become lovers, Ellison couldn't seem to sit down to watch television without absently toying with his partner's hair if it was within easy reach. Not wanting to fluster or embarrass the older man, Blair had kept the observation to himself, reasoning it was just an expression of the Sentinel's heightened sense of touch. Unflattering comparisons came to mind of Ellison idly petting his cat or dog, but Sandburg shrugged them off. 

The TV screen switched to show players from both teams warming up on the basketball court. Giving out various stats, the game announcer was suddenly cut off in mid-word, the screen going black. 

"What the hell happened?" Blair asked, bewildered. He twisted around to look up at his partner. "Could we've lost cable from the storm?" 

Ellison shook his head. "Our cable is buried, Chief; the weather shouldn't affect it." 

As he was speaking, the blackness vanished, and a picture of the ESPN studios reappeared. 

"Sorry about that, folks," the studio anchor was saying. "It seems the game between the Cascade Jaguars and the St. Louis Gatecrashers is unavoidably delayed. There's currently a severe thunderstorm in the Cascade area, and a bolt of lightning has apparently hit a transformer near the stadium. Our man on the scene reports the power is out for at least a five block radius. Hopefully, it won't take too long to make the needed repairs. Stay with us, and we'll bring you all the action as soon as possible. While we're waiting, let's..." 

Ellison flicked off the TV, then handed the remote to Sandburg to put on the coffee table. "No reason to watch re-runs of re-runs, Chief," he explained. "We'll check again in half an hour or so." 

"Fine by me." Blair leaned his head back against Ellison's left thigh and closed his eyes. 

The hand gently carding through his hair, combined with the simple comfort of being at home with his lover, should have relaxed him. Try as he might, however, Blair was unable to lose the constant knot of tension deep within himself. 

"You're wound up tighter than a kid's top." The Sentinel's voice was very tender. "What's wrong, Chief?" 

Ellison was sure he knew what was bothering his Guide. Although he would have preferred to have had this conversation later, after both of them had had a chance to unwind and recoup, maybe it was better to talk about it now and get it over with. Then they could finally put the last piece of this traumatic event behind them. He knew he'd been correct in his assumption when, taking a deep breath, Sandburg turned around so he could see Ellison's face. 

"You, um, know earlier..." the younger man began hesitantly, "...when you said there was nothing left to worry over?" 

"Yeah?" Jim was determined to let Sandburg tell this in his own way. 

"Well, I'm really sorry, man; but there _is_ something to worry about." The grad student gave a nervous laugh. "A really honking huge something." 

Hiding his grin at the younger man's choice of words, Jim said encouragingly, "What's that, Chief?' 

Sandburg bit his lip and looked away. 

"It can't be that bad," commented Ellison. "Just tell me what's bothering you." 

"Oh, yes, it can," mumbled Sandburg. Then, taking another deep breath, he forced himself to meet the other man's steady regard. "Simon knows about us, man. Or, at least, he knows about me. That's what he's waiting to talk to you about. I'm surprised he didn't show up tonight; the storm must've held him up." He unconsciously held his breath, releasing it when the affectionate look in the clear blue eyes never changed. 

"So he knows." Jim shrugged. He knew there was more to the story, but Blair was going to have to be the one to bring it up. "He was bound to find out sooner or later." 

Blair bit his lip again. "That...that's not the end of it, Jim." He dropped his gaze and fixed his eyes on the knees of his jeans. 

"Oh?" 

"He didn't take it well." Blair gave a rueful snort at the understatement. "Oh, boy, _did_ he not take it well." 

"Tell me what happened, Chief," Jim ordered gently. 

"It was my fault; I fucked up," Blair confessed. "I'd just realized that Rafe had grabbed you and...and all I could see were those damn crime scene photos! I-I freaked and-I know I didn't say anything, I swear it, man!--but somehow Simon guessed. He-He just suddenly got this god-awful look on his face, like he was going to be sick or something. So I told him that I love you. He went totally ballistic," the grad student said miserably. "I've never seen him like that; he was so furious, he was shaking. Simon's yelled at me before, but not like this. He never raised his voice, but... He called me every disgusting, demeaning name he could think of, in the coldest tone I've ever heard. And the look in his eyes..." Sandburg's voice broke. "I thought he was my friend." 

It took a supreme act of self-will, but Ellison managed to hold back the surge of rage. He grimly forced himself to listen as Sandburg continued. 

Head down, hair falling forward obscuring his face, Sandburg said dully, "I know he was getting ready to throw me out of the station. But, just then, Chief Warren came barging into his office, demanding to know if it was true that Rafe had kidnapped you. He wanted to know what made me think the serial killer was Rafe. Simon had no choice but to let me tell Warren what you and I suspected. When I was done, Warren wasn't happy, either; but he told Simon that I was to be allowed to continue to work the case. That was the final straw, man. From that point on, Simon couldn't see me for dirt. It was bad enough that an untrained observer was directing such an important case, but when that observer turns out to be a perverted faggot who's trying to corrupt one good, decent cop and frame another..." 

"I should've killed him." 

Lost in the rush of shame and humiliation engendered by memories of Banks' verbal bombardment, it was several minutes before Sandburg realized that Ellison had spoken. "What did you say, Jim?" Looking up, Blair's breath caught in his chest at sight of his lover's face. 

Death was staring out of those frigid blue eyes. 

"Jim!" Cold fear washing through him, Blair scrambled to his knees. Reaching out, he laid a hand against a cold cheek. "Jim, what is it?" he demanded frantically. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm quite all right." Ellison's voice was as icy as an Arctic wind. "I said `I should've killed him'." Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Several measured breaths later, he opened them and, icily furious expression gone, gave his partner a wry look and grin. "I quit, instead." 

Sandburg grunted as though he'd been punched in the stomach. 

Gazing deep into the incredulous eyes, Ellison said, "I have a confession of my own to make, Chief. I already knew what had happened between you and Banks." 

Gaping at him, Blair whispered, "But...how? I never said, and Simon promised..." 

"Once I'd proven to myself that something was wrong between you two, I made Joel tell me Tuesday evening while you were out getting dinner. After I'd heard the whole story, I knew there was only one thing for me to do. The reason it took so long for Joel and me to get home tonight is because I talked him into taking me into Central. I saw Banks, set him straight on a thing or two, and handed him my letter of resignation. I was going to tell you about it later, after you'd had a chance to get a few nights of decent sleep." 

Seemingly frozen in place, Blair just stared at him. Finally, a single word slipped out. "Why?" 

"I can't trust him anymore, Chief. If it had been left up to him, I would've become just another crime statistic, one more victim of an unknown serial killer." 

"Oh." 

"But that wasn't the reason I gave him." Bringing up his right hand, Ellison laid it against the one on his cheek. Gazing intently at his bewildered lover, he quietly said, "I would've had to give up _us_ if I'd wanted to remain with Major Crime. I can't let you go, Chief; I just can't. You're the only reason my heart beats anymore. I refuse to allow anyone, especially a bigot like Simon Banks, to take you away from me." 

"Oh, Jim." One fat tear trickled down a high cheekbone. 

Leaning forward, Blair kissed him slowly, deeply, reverently. Striving to convey the depth of his love and devotion, he worshipped the beautiful mouth. Time and again, he licked at the soft palate, gently bit the sensuous lower lip and let his tongue duel with an agile opponent. 

When he finally pulled back, their lips parted with a sweet, wet sound. 

"I love you, Chief; so much more than you'll ever know." Breathless from the kiss and intense emotion, it was a couple of seconds before Jim could finish. "I'm not going to regret this, and neither should you. As I told Joel, let's only look forward-not backward." 

Eyes shining with an inner glow, Blair pressed a soft kiss to the healing cheek. "Okay, man." He laid his head in Ellison's lap; his right hand gently caressed a jean-clad leg. "I'm so sorry you had to lose Simon as a friend, Jim." 

"I didn't lose Simon," Jim refuted. "He lost me. His choice, his will--not mine." 

"But what are you going to do if you're not a cop any longer?" fretted Blair. "You're a Sentinel; you need to protect and serve." 

"So I'll find some other way to do it." Ellison stroked the curly head. "We'll think of something, Chief. It's going to be months before I'm completely fit, anyway. I have every confidence that crafty little brain of yours will come up with some wild and exciting job for me. We've got a place to live, enough money so that we don't have to worry about food and bills and we've got each other. For once, I'm not going to let the future bother me." 

"Amen to that, man." 

Even though he was bent awkwardly, and his back would soon be complaining about his strained posture, Blair Sandburg was supremely content. Snuggling his face closer to the muscled abdomen, he took a deep breath of warm Jim Ellison; sighing happily, he let his eyes drift shut. He knew he should get up and get busy; he still had to pack for their stay on Grave's Point. Starting tomorrow, they had four weeks in a beautiful cabin; four weeks of just the two of them. No university worries, no police emergencies...just them and soothing, nurturing Mother Nature. Four long weeks for Jim to continue healing and to gradually regain his strength. Astonishingly, the popular, overworked cliche, was actually true. 

Tomorrow really was the first day of the rest of their lives. 

**EPILOGUE**

Easing down into his recliner with a sigh, Simon took a long swallow of beer before grabbing his TV remote. The Jags had made it into the playoffs. A weary Banks was hoping the game would relax him enough to allow a good night's sleep. Eight full hours of peaceful rest had become a very distant memory. 

Lazily watching the action on the screen as he sipped his beer, Simon suddenly stiffened and came upright in the chair. As the players scrambled down the court again, he tensely studied the crowd behind them. Lennox and an opposing player obligingly decided to stop at center court. Banks was then able to focus on the faces which had caught his attention. An obviously happy Jim Ellison, his face shining with a beaming smile, had an arm around an animated Blair Sandburg. The younger man's hands were flying about and, as he watched, Banks saw Ellison throw back his head and laugh. At that moment, the opposing player stole the ball from Lennox and took off down the court, TV cameras following. 

Snatching up the remote, Simon hurriedly snapped off the TV. As silence descended around him, the police captain found himself remembering. It had been two years since he had last seen, or had any contact with, either Ellison or Sandburg. With Rafe dead, there hadn't been the need for a trial and the last time he'd seen either man was the stormy evening Jim had resigned. Nursing a large amount of betrayed hurt and severely dented pride that night, Banks had vowed to himself that he would show everyone that Major Crime could survive very well without its most-decorated detective. He had known that Taggart and several people from the bullpen were in contact with the two men, but no one had volunteered any information concerning them. Wounded feelings resolutely in place, Banks had stonily refused to ask. 

He had also refused to allow Joel to bridge the chasm which had sprung up between the two old friends. Taggart had made it obvious that he still considered Simon a good friend, and that he was willing to work on salvaging their past relationship. For the longest time, however, Banks had been unable to put aside his self-perceived role of martyred victim. To his mind, he was the one who had suffered the most from the incident; because of Blair Sandburg, he had lost two good friends and, as he'd belatedly discovered, a great deal of respect from his men and Chief Warren. 

Slowly, over the long months, Joel had stopped trying to make amends. Their close personal friendship devolved into one of competent professional colleagues. By the time Simon's hurt pride had receded to a point he could look beyond his own feelings, it was too late. Approximately eight months after Ellison had walked out, Joel Taggart had opted for early retirement. He and his wife had moved to Portland soon afterward to look after her aging parents. 

Upon his return from vacation that year, Henry Brown had gone into such a state of anger and denial, the departmental psychiatrist had ordered a three-month administrative leave to allow the shocked detective time to come to terms with his partner's double life. Now, two years on, Brown remained with Major Crime, but had become a tense, brooding loner who steadfastly refused to take another partner. Strangely enough, he didn't seem to harbor any ill will toward either Ellison or Sandburg. From what Banks had once overheard, Brown was a frequent and welcome visitor at the loft. 

Resting his head against the soft back of his chair, Simon fought his memories. Flashes came of a slightly off-balance Ellison, reeling from the abrupt emergence of his Sentinel abilities, resolutely breaking into a terrorist-infested police station to rescue not only Banks' teen-aged son, Daryl and a room full of police hostages, but also, his newly-minted Guide, Sandburg; a strained, worried Jim Ellison helping Simon through the burning hotel in Rossburg, ignoring his own safety in order to get his wounded friend clear; a camouflaged Ellison, risking his life in Peru, fighting off an entire camp of drug smugglers to free Banks and his son. 

Just as loyal and determined, and forever at Ellison's side, had been Blair Sandburg. A grad student, an academic, who, though he'd never had any formal training in law enforcement, never flinched when it came to the nastier, more demanding aspects of police work. 

Abruptly unutterably exhausted, Banks gave up the struggle. Sitting alone in an echoing apartment, Simon at last gave himself permission. He allowed himself to mourn for the loving friends and unflagging companionship that were no longer his to enjoy. Poor judgment, jealousy and prejudice had caused him to carelessly throw away something beautiful and precious...something that could never be retrieved. 

For that irredeemable loss, Simon Banks sat and grieved, silent tears coursing down his cheeks. 

Disclaimer: Death of Secondary Character 

PJ  
April 2004 

* * *

End In Deepest Consequence by PJ: NeedACon@aol.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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